The Psychic Next Door
by Donnamour1969
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! Teresa Lisbon is a college student, doing her best to raise her younger brothers on her own. When her worst fear is realized, will the psychic next door be able to help her? AU set in Chicago, 1994. Romance/Drama/Mystery. Rated T/M for language and adult content. Cover created by the amazing phoenix2812.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, another AU, mainly because the current show is so enthralling that I want to wait to see how it unfolds before I write something more in canon. I seem to be obsessed with a younger version of Jane and Lisbon, and I've never written Lisbon as the mother figure she had to have been growing up without her parents. This first chapter starts out calmly enough, but don't look for that to last for long. There is no Angela or Red John in this universe, but you will find Jane's past still has had a profound impact on the man he has become.

**The Psychic Next Door**

**Chapter 1**

_Chicago, 1994_

"Wait—your backpack!"

"I'm gonna be late, Reese," groaned a petulant Michael.

Teresa Lisbon trotted back up the steps of her Chicago brownstone and retrieved her little brother's school bag from the foyer table, while the chestnut haired boy waited impatiently on his bike.

"I don't want another note home from Mrs. Bronstein saying that you forgot your homework again," she said breathlessly, helping him slip the straps over his small shoulders.

"Eat the sandwich I packed you, Michael. No trading for Mallowmars again."

"I'm sick of peanut butter and jelly," he whined.

"Well, next week you can have bologna, okay?"

He looked heavenward, but knew better than to push his luck. Teresa suppressed a smile, then, love suffusing her, she grabbed him and kissed him very much against his will on top of his damp curls.

He blanched, and then she did laugh. "Now, get going. And be careful!"

"Whatever," he said.

She watched him ride off on his bright red Schwinn—the fourth one to have owned it—toward the elementary school two blocks away. His older brothers used to walk him to school, but now they both attended the high school in the opposite direction, and Michael was adamant that he didn't need his big sister walking him to school. The bike was a compromise, but every time Teresa watched him ride away, she felt a thrill of worry. He was only ten, after all. And although their older neighborhood was relatively quiet, there was a lot that could happen to a small boy in the big city. She sighed and kept him in view until a grove of oak trees blocked her sight.

At that moment, an old baby blue convertible pulled up to the curb, carrying two blonde girls. The driver honked in a very unladylike manner, in Teresa's opinion, and the other girl's laughter jangled on her nerves. The door at the top of the steps swung open, and her other two brothers bounded down toward the street, no books to speak of, familiar brown hair catching the morning light.

"Bye, Reese," said Tommy, not even glancing at his older sister.

"Bye," echoed the younger James.

"You have hockey practice after school?" she asked them. They didn't bother with the car doors but slid over the window sills and into the arms of their girlfriends.

"Yeah," called Tommy.

"Well, don't mess around getting home. I have to work late at the diner."

She didn't want Michael to be home alone more than an hour or two. She hated that he had to be a latchkey kid at all, but if she were to continue to put food on the table, it was a necessary sacrifice. She had morning classes at the local junior college, then a ten-hour waitressing shift at Monty's. She counted on the older two to watch out for Michael, but sometimes their sports and social life interfered.

"Whatever, _Mom_," said James sarcastically, complete with eye roll, no doubt for the girls' benefit.

Teresa's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could yell out a few choice words, the convertible had sped off amidst more of the girls' tinkling laughter.

Teresa closed her eyes, touched the cross at her neck, said a silent prayer that they'd be safe, then turned back to the steps to retrieve her things. A movement in the window of the house next door caught her eye and she paused on the third step. Since old Mrs. Scott had passed away six months before, the house had remained empty. As far as she knew, no one had purchased it, and the old woman's lawyer was waiting for relatives out west to come and claim it.

She stared at the white lace curtains a few minutes more, but saw nothing. Maybe it had been her imagination, but she couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone had been watching her. With a slight shiver, she went back inside her house.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Teresa hung up the pay phone at 3:30 that afternoon. Michael had made it home, and insisted he was safely double-bolted inside. He knew the diner's number by heart and Teresa had taught him about calling 911, so she tried to push her worries away and focus on finishing her shift. She tightened the elastic band around her ponytail and smoothed down her short, orange uniform skirt, grateful she was wearing tennis shoes to get her through the next five and a half hours.

The cheery tinkling of the bells on the door drew her eyes to the new customer who'd entered the diner. He wasn't the normal kind they got in here, especially not during the slow hours after the lunch rush. Sure, they got business diners, but this guy was on a totally different level. He was impeccably dressed in a dove gray, three-piece suit and turquoise tie, his blonde, wavy hair brushed back, showing a face some would call beautiful—Statue of David beautiful. He was slim and of average height, but he moved with a grace Cary Grant would have envied. He waited by the cash register, as the sign there instructed, and Teresa snapped out of her daze to move quickly to greet him.

"Welcome to Monty's. Would you prefer a booth or the counter?"

He grinned while his pale green eyes assessed her in one sweeping, disconcerting glance from head to toe. She felt her entire body tingle with awareness.

"Hello, Teresa," he said softly, and she felt her heart skip a beat at her name on his lips. He spoke to her as if he knew her, but then she remembered foolishly that she wore a nametag over her right breast. "A booth would be lovely," he told her. She felt as if he knew some amusing secret about her, and she felt her face flush a delicate shade of rose.

"Certainly," she replied with a shy smile, and she turned away to grab a menu in an attempt to cover her uncharacteristic embarrassment. "This way."

She walked self-consciously down the single aisle to a corner booth overlooking the busy Chicago street. She wondered vaguely if he was looking at her behind in the same appreciative way his gaze had swept over her breasts.

He removed his expensive suit coat and laid it carefully on the orange bench seat, then slid in beside it. She handed him a menu and he looked up at her expectantly.

"What can I get you to drink?" she asked.

"Hot tea. Milk in the cup first," he instructed. "Please make sure the water is boiling hot."

She raised an eyebrow before she could help it, and he caught the gesture. His smile widened. "I'm particular about my tea."

"Aw," she said diplomatically. "I'll get that for you—"

"I already know what else I want," he interrupted. He hadn't even looked at the menu. As a matter of fact, she realized, his eyes hadn't left hers.

With a small smirk, Teresa took her order pad from her front pocket and pulled her pen from behind her ear.

"Okay. What can I get you?"

His eyes were fairly sparkling at her now. _What the hell is going on?_ she thought. _Why do I feel like we are mainly communicating in subtext?_

"It says on the window you serve breakfast twenty-four-seven," he said, a challenge in his voice.

"That's right. Hungry for breakfast then?"

He nodded. "Two eggs, loosely scrambled. Rye toast. One strip of bacon and a link sausage. Glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed if you have it."

She really had to work hard to hide her disappointment. _One of those._

"Yes," he said, as if responding directly to her thoughts, "I'm persnickety about my breakfast too."

She was nonplussed a moment, but made a valiant attempt to hide it. "We aim to please here at Monty's. I'll uh, have that right out for you, sir."

"Thank you, Teresa."

Ten minutes later, Teresa nervously set down the man's plate. She stood back as if he _she_ were the one who had cooked it. She'd made his tea earlier, and she'd been inordinately pleased when he'd taken a sip and nodded at her in satisfaction. She kept telling herself it was because she was after a good tip, but there was something about this man—maybe she just wanted to keep seeing that amazing smile of his.

Now, she awaited the verdict on his eggs.

He unrolled his silverware from the napkin and, after spreading the white paper dutifully in his lap, scooped up a large forkful of egg. He cocked his head, then closed his eyes as he chewed. After a moment, he looked up at her and smiled.

"Not bad," he said. She felt an odd wave of relief.

"Good. Please let me know if I can get you anything else."

"When's your break?" he asked without hesitation.

"What?"

"Your coffee break? I'd love for you to join me." He gestured with his fork to the opposite seat.

She looked around surreptitiously, fearful someone might have heard him. Monty definitely frowned upon fraternizing with customers.

"That's very nice of you, but I'm not due for a break for another hour," she was able to reply honestly.

He met her eyes, once again evaluating her, apparently liking what he saw.

"Too bad. Another time, perhaps?"

She didn't want to encourage him, so she made a slight humming sound and left him to his meal.

Her heart, however, was pounding rapidly within her breast.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that night, Teresa happily patted the pocket of her uniform. The blonde man had left her a twenty-dollar tip! In total, she'd made nearly a hundred dollars in tips-it had been a very good night. After walking the three blocks from the bus stop, she tiredly climbed the steps to her house, dreaming of a hot bath and a good book. She happened to glance up at the neighbor's house again, only to find a light on now behind the curtains.

She frowned, then continued up the steps and unlocked the double bolt on her front door.

Tommy and James were watching some cop show from their place on the couch, and Michael was sound asleep on the floor.

"Hey, Reese," said Tommy softly, eyes still on the TV.

"Hi. Why isn't Michael in bed? It's almost ten o'clock."

"He passed out on the floor before we could even tell him to take a bath."

She sighed. "He hasn't even taken a bath yet? Hasn't brushed his teeth?"

"Come on, Teresa," said James. "One night won't hurt."

She supposed not, and frankly, she was too tired to care. "Well, one of you put him in his bed, then you two do the same. It's a school night."

"This is almost over," said Tommy. "Ten minutes."

Teresa shook her head. It had been very difficult after their parents had died for her to assume a parenting role. Most of the time they did what she said, but all in their own time, and not without at least a little bit of back talk. It was frustrating, but after a day like today, she wasn't in the mood to make a federal case of it, and they both knew it.

"By the way," she said, a thought occurring to her. "Did someone move into the house next door?"

"Looks that way," said James. "Haven't seen anyone though."

"Me neither," added Tommy. "Hey, maybe there will be a good-looking girl."

James snorted. "What good will that do _you_?"

Tommy slugged his brother good-naturedly, and Teresa closed her eyes in annoyance.

"Well, good night, boys. Ten minutes, all right?"

"Night," came the chorus from the living room. They hadn't acknowledged her directive, of course.

As she lay up to her neck in hot water, feeling the aches of being on her feet all day begin to fade, she kept thinking of the man in the three-piece suit from the diner. It had been odd to say the least, feeling so instantly attracted to a man. And he was definitely a _man, _not the college boys she was used to hitting on her. He was a man who was obviously way out of her league, however, and a few years older than her twenty-one years. He must really be slumming to have eaten an afternoon breakfast in a greasy spoon like Monty's. He was so handsome as to seem almost unreal, charm exuding from every pore, his eyes enticingly filled with mischief. That man was trouble for sure.

_Oh well,_ she sighed, closing her eyes. _I'll probably never see him again._

The next morning was very similar to the last, except that it was Thursday, and Teresa had no college classes. She was wonderfully free until her lunchtime shift began at eleven, so, after the boys left for school, she took her coffee and the newspaper and sat on her stoop in the sunshine. Her old neighborhood was liveliest in the morning, with people hurrying off to work, or out walking their dogs. Joggers and cyclists got in their daily exercise, and elderly couples took walks together, holding hands. It was early September, so the Chicago mornings were turning cooler, the afternoons warm and pleasant. It was Teresa's favorite time of year.

She'd been thoroughly absorbed by an article about rising crime on the South Side, when a navy blue BMW pulled up in front of the house next door. From out of the driver's side stepped a beautiful, middle-aged woman in business attire, her hair expertly coiffed. She hesitated a moment, looking up at the modest house, then, after checking the number against the one written down on the back of a small card, she shrugged and climbed the stairs.

At her timid knock, the red door was opened for her, and a masculine voice greeted her, ushering her quickly inside. From her position at the top of her own stairs, Teresa couldn't see the identity of her new neighbor, but the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Her eyes returned curiously to the expensive car. There was a lot of old money in this neighborhood, but few people flaunted it by driving expensive cars or wearing designer clothing. If this was any indication of their new neighbor's identity, he was going to have a difficult time fitting in around here.

As Teresa was leaving for work later, another fancy car—this time a Cadillac—replaced the BMW, and yet another stylishly dressed woman made her way up the steps next door, disappearing inside like the other one.

They were too old to be call girls, she thought in amusement, and Teresa had to admit she was intrigued. She decided then it was her duty to officially welcome him to the neighborhood. After all, it was the neighborly thing to do.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At seven-thirty that night, a whole apple pie from the diner in hand, Teresa found herself outside the red door of her neighbor's house. She knocked three times in rapid succession, then stood back to wait. She heard a faint stirring within, then footsteps, then a sharp turn of the bolt.

When she saw the house's occupant, she nearly dropped her pie. The handsome man from the diner the day before was apparently her new neighbor.

"What?" she managed dully.

"Teresa!" he said with a wide grin. "How nice of you to welcome me to the block!" He took the pie from her numb hands and pulled her gently inside to stand in the foyer, in an utter state of shock. The man didn't seem surprised at all to see _her_.

"Will you join me for a piece?" he asked jovially, taking her pie into the kitchen.

"Uh…"

"Come on. I'll make tea."

She realized with a start that she was in a stranger's house—not exactly the wisest move for a small young woman…_alone_.

"I'm sorry, but I really only stopped to drop off the pie. I've got to get home to my brothers—"

"Yes, they sure have grown up! I don't remember the littlest one though."

"What?"

She was really starting to sound like an imbecile. She found herself following him into the kitchen, one that she remembered when Mrs. Scott, who had been British, had served her high tea from time to time and told her all about England. Nothing had been changed in the room from what she could see, and he put the familiar tea kettle on to boil.

He turned from the old gas stove to look at her, humor lighting his face.

"You don't remember me, do you? I thought as much."

She nodded. "Of course. You were at the diner yesterday."

"Yes, but we met way before that, you and I. A very long time ago."

"Were you related to Mrs. Scott?" she asked, comprehension dawning.

"She was my grandmother," he told her. "The first time I saw you, fifteen years ago, you pushed me off your bike when you claimed I stole it. You must have been what—eight or nine years old?" He chuckled at the memory. "I still have the scar where my elbow hit the pavement."

Teresa's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God! That was you?" She squinted at him, trying to recall the summer when Mrs. Scott's grandson came for a visit.

"Paddy?"

A brief shadow crossed his features, but he covered it quickly. "I mainly go by Patrick these days," he said softly.

The years fell away, and she recalled a young boy of about twelve, with hair bleached white by the California sun, his curls reminding her of the dandelions her father was always trying to eradicate from the front lawn. She remembered he'd been mouthy and too big for his britches and had annoyed the holy hell out of her. But she'd been the only kid on the block even close to his age, and they'd played cops and robbers in his grandmother's backyard and waited together on the curb for the ice cream truck every day at two.

But despite his somewhat irritating personality, Paddy knew magic tricks and more stories than were in her big book of fairy tales, and she remembered him sitting on their stoop, regaling her and her little brothers like Scheherazade in _Arabian Nights_.

Over the years, she'd wondered about the boy who'd bragged about his adventures with the carnival, but over time he'd slipped into the attic of her memory, and she realized she hadn't thought of him in a decade.

"Wow," she repeated. "Patrick Jane. The boy with the girl's last name."

He nodded and grinned. "Teresa Lisbon. My, have you grown up."

She flushed as his gaze took in her shapely legs below her skirt before making the familiar trek upward, past her curvy hips to her perfect breasts. When he finally met her eyes again, she knew she was blushing to her hair. Little Paddy had turned into quite the flirt—and damned if he wasn't the most sensual man she'd ever seen.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were in the diner?" she said, her voice suddenly accusatory.

He shrugged, and she could tell he wasn't sorry. "I wanted to see if you'd remember me on your own."

"Well, you've changed too," she pointed out. Then her face grew solemn. "I'm sorry about your grandmother. She was a lovely lady."

"Yes, she was," he agreed. "I was sorry I hadn't seen her in so long. It was sort of out of my control growing up."

"The carnival," she said, remembering.

"Yes. And after my mother died, my father didn't have the heart to bring me back to her home here in Chicago. I couldn't believe her lawyer tracked me down in California, when Grandma died," he told her. "I guess I was her only surviving heir."

"There's no one left, even in England?"

"Not that I know of."

He took a knife from his grandmother's drawer and cut two pieces of pie, placing them gently on familiar Blue Willow china plates. He gave her a fork, and the two of them stood in the old kitchen, eating pie as the water began to boil.

"So, are you thinking of staying here?" she asked. She tried to sound politely curious, but inside, she felt an exhilarating spark of…_anticipation._

Was it her imagination, or was he reading her thoughts? He smiled knowingly around a bite of fruit, his eyes compelling. "Now that's an intriguing proposition," he said softly. "Perhaps."

The teakettle whistled and Patrick turned off the burner, then busily prepared their tea, just like he'd instructed her in the diner.

"Please," he said, nodding toward the small fifties era kitchen table with its two vinyl chairs. "Sit."

She picked up their plates and went to sit down.

"Did you follow me to the diner yesterday?" she asked him, feeling a strange jolt at the idea that he'd been stalking her. She'd known he'd been watching her from his window, after all…

"No, that was a happy coincidence. I was in the mood for eggs, and Monty's is the closest greasy spoon…"

"Oh." She wondered why she felt disappointed by his simple explanation.

As she made herself comfortable, Teresa gave a brief thought to her little brothers, but knew they were safe next door, so for once she pushed them out of her mind and focused on the man who was bringing two cups and saucers of hot tea to the table. He sat across from her and smiled.

"So, Teresa, what are you up to these days? I see you are raising your brothers. Your parents are both gone, I assume."

Her eyes widened in surprise that he knew so much. Had his grandmother shared information about their lives over the years?

"Yes. My mother, when I was sixteen. Dad, three years ago."

"It must not have been very easy."

She sipped cautiously at her tea. She added sugar from the bowl on the table. "That's an understatement," she managed.

"And you're going to college."

"Yes—"

"Don't tell me; let me guess: Criminal Justice major, right?"

"Well, yeah. How did you know?"

"It's logical that you would. Your mother was a nurse if I recall. Your dad, a fireman. You'd want to help people somehow, like they did, but not _exactly _like they did. So…cop."

"I'd like to be a police detective some day," she clarified.

"Aw."

Teresa shook her head in wonder. Even if his grandmother had told him she was attending college, no way Mrs. Scott could have known her major. She'd only declared it herself last month.

"That's amazing," she said, because it was.

He smiled mysteriously into his tea.

"Speaking of mysterious," she said aloud.

He raised an eyebrow. "Were we?"

She flushed.

"Uh, sorry. I mean, I noticed you've had a few visitors lately. Friends of the family?"

His lips quirked. They both knew damn well those wealthy women weren't _friends._

"Clients," he supplied.

He watched in amusement the play of emotions over her highly expressive face. The precise moment she thought of the word _gigolo_, he coincidentally chuckled out loud.

"Definitely _not _what you're thinking," he said. "Although, I must say, I'm very flattered."

She gulped a sip of scalding tea, burning her tongue.

"Well, what do you do with them, then?"

"I'm their psychic," he said.

Teresa promptly began to choke as a bite of apple pie became stuck in her throat.

**A/N: Okay, that's the set up. What do you think? I promise the intrigue and excitement will increase next chapter. I hope you join me.**

**Also, be on the lookout for an update to my fic with waterbaby, "Eyes Like the Sea." No, we haven't forgotten about it!**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow! Thanks so much for the warm welcome of this fic! I treasure every review. I hope you continue to enjoy my story, and now that I'm on summer break, I should have more time to write. Looking forward to the opportunity to entertain you (I hope), and show you a little bit more of Lisbon's feistiness.

**Chapter 2**

Patrick Jane patted Teresa's back a few times, and then, after a few gulps of the water he'd quickly procured for her, she was able to respond at last.

"You're their _psychic_? As in a reading minds and communicating with the dead, _psychic_?"

He smirked a bit. "Something like that."

She looked more than a little skeptical, and her fingers went unconsciously to the golden crucifix at her throat.

"Only God knows all and sees all," she chided.

He chuckled. "I didn't say I was omniscient. I can reasonably deduce what a person is thinking, and if someone has passed on to the other side, I can help channel the energy that all beings leave behind and act as a conduit for communicating with their loved ones. It's a valuable service."

She raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And how much do you charge for such _valuable _services?"

He didn't hesitate. He'd never been shy about discussing his fees.

"Three hundred dollars an hour for a reading. Up to five thousand for a séance. Somewhere in between for a communication session."

"Holy Mother of—" she gasped. "You're kidding me?"

"I never kid about money," he said with a grin.

She shook her head in wonder. "Wow. I'm going into the wrong business."

He shrugged, sitting back against the vinyl chair and sipping his tea.

"You must be good," she conceded. "I saw the cars and clothes those women owned. I'm sure they wouldn't pay you so much if you weren't good."

"Oh, I'm _very_ good," he said, and his husky voice was laden with innuendo.

She felt her cheeks tingle as she blushed. "You must be very good at feeding them a line of bull," she clarified. "No offense."

He didn't seem offended, not in the least. On the contrary, his smile widened.

"Aw, do I detect a non-believer?"

"I believe in God," she said. "But not in psychics."

He considered her a moment, calculating what approach to take with her. It wasn't as if he hadn't run into the skeptical type where his business was concerned, but in order to convince this naysayer, it would take a bit of…finessing.

"What about someone's sixth sense," he suggested. "Don't you believe people can sometimes sense when danger is near, or maybe get a premonition that something might happen?"

"That's the Holy Ghost," she countered. "He also acts as your _conscience._" Her last word was said with more than a tinge of disapproval.

"So why couldn't God or the Holy Ghost be using me, just as God has used prophets in the Bible?"

"You're comparing yourself to a prophet? That's a bit blasphemous, don't you think?"

"Well, why _not _me? How do you know God hasn't given me this gift-?"

"Hogwash," she stated matter-of-factly.

He let out a bark of laughter, utterly charmed. "_Hogwash_?"

"You heard me. Look, I'm not going to judge you for trying to make a living off of the gullibility of wealthy women—"

"Oh," he interrupted wryly, "I'm certainly glad to hear you're not judging."

"—but, I'd like to think you don't actually believe in the—in the lies you're telling them."

Patrick leaned forward in his seat, reaching one hand across the table to touch her hand, his blue-green eyes boring into hers.

"Try me."

She stiffened at his touch, though warmth flowed into her hand from his.

"What do you mean?"

"Test me. Think of your deepest, darkest secret, and I'll tell you what it is."

A thought instantly occurred to her, and she removed her hand from beneath his, hoping the intensity of his gaze would lessen if he wasn't touching her at the same time. It didn't help much. She had the sudden, disconcerting feeling that he was looking straight into her soul.

"No," she whispered.

"Afraid?"

She swallowed and the truth slipped from her lips.

"Yes."

He held her eyes captive a moment longer, then he relaxed his body, sitting back in his chair and picking up his tea once more. She felt as if she'd been released from some sort of thrall. How had things gotten to this point so quickly? This wasn't the kind of deep conversation one had with a near stranger.

Abruptly, she stood up.

"I need to go. My brothers—"

"I didn't mean to upset you, Teresa," he said, rising like a gentleman.

"I'm—I'm not upset. I just need to get home."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I've enjoyed our conversation."

He followed her as she walked quickly toward the door. "I hope you'll come back soon—and bring more delicious pie."

"Yeah," she replied absently. "Sure."

But Teresa couldn't seem to get away from him fast enough. Without another word, she ran down his grandmother's stairs, then back up her own, fishing her keys from her pocket before quickly unlocking the door and slipping inside.

"Good night, Teresa," he called. Then, with a wistful half-smile, he closed his own door and turned the lock.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Heart pounding, Teresa slumped gratefully against the safety of her locked front door.

_What the hell was that?_

"Reese?" called Michael. "I'm hungry."

She forced herself to snap out of it and, pasting a smile on her face, joined her little brother in the kitchen.

"Where are your brothers?" she asked him.

"In their rooms. They said they'd already eaten."

He'd found a box of macaroni and cheese from the cupboard and had been in the process of filling a pot with water.

"Do _you_ want to make it?" she asked.

"Can I? I've watched you do it a million times."

Her smile became genuine. "Sure. Every young man should learn to cook. Read the directions on the box."

"Cool," he said, and proceeded to do just that. She sat at the kitchen table and watched him, grinning when he read the directions aloud, asking her questions about measuring cups and spoons.

But she was still thinking about her confrontation with Patrick Jane.

The way he'd looked at her…she'd become so worked up so quickly. That was totally unlike her. She had always prided herself in maintaining complete control of herself under pressure. That's what had gotten her through losing both her parents and taking on the monumental task of taking care of her brothers at such a young age. That's what had made her decide to become a cop.

Then, with one heated conversation about faith and psychics, she'd totally lost it.

_What the hell was it?_ she asked herself again, as Michael stirred the macaroni.

Was it his compelling eyes? His husky voice? His knowing smile? What had he done to her? She'd felt almost…hypnotized.

"Oh, here—let me help with that," said Teresa, rising to help him drain the boiling pasta water into the sink.

It wasn't just about the psychic thing, although her Catholic faith prevented her from believing anyone but God could have the power Patrick claimed to have. Something in him had stirred something in her. And she had the feeling—she grinned to herself—the _premonition_—that after talking to him this night, she would never be the same again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick didn't sleep well that night, which was totally unlike him. He'd learned long ago to push aside the guilt that came with deceiving people, and thus usually slept like a baby. But toying with Teresa Lisbon had been different somehow. She'd made him think and question and regret what he'd become—characteristics definitely not conducive to being a good fake psychic. But as he'd looked into her wide green eyes, he'd wondered who was finessing whom.

He'd been taught to be a liar and a conman from the moment he could walk and talk. His mother had been there in his formative years, had been a buffer between the pitfalls of carney showbiz and being a decent human being off the stage, but when she'd died, his father had thrown himself into blurring that line forever. Patrick had resisted at first, especially when it came to manipulating old ladies and sick children. But as he'd become more adept at his job, as the money began to pour in, he'd managed to sweep the last vestiges of his guilt neatly into the attic of what remained of his conscience.

Until now.

What was it about Teresa Lisbon that made him wish he were a better man? There wasn't anything extraordinary about her in the looks department. She had an almost fey quality about her-all pale skin and dark hair and large eyes. Her body was pleasant enough—softly feminine, with shapely hips, high breasts and toned legs that were certainly worth a second glance beneath that ridiculous orange waitress skirt. She wasn't at all his usual type. She had no money, for starters, nothing to offer but a warm body and a house full of kids.

Definitely not his cup of tea. Well, at least the kids part.

Still…there was something…

At four a.m., Patrick gave up and got out of his grandmother's old four-post bed. He walked to the open window in only his pajama bottoms, and drew back the lace curtain to look outside. He was surprised to see a light on in the window directly across from his, and it was in that moment he remembered that that particular room had been Teresa's as a child. She'd invited him up there once, when she'd gone to get her roller skates.

Her shade was drawn, but behind it he could see the shadow of feminine movement. He felt a bit like a voyeur, but then the shadow moved closer to the window, and all at once, the blind was drawn up and he was looking at Teresa Lisbon in a sleepshirt. No way could he turn away now. He stepped back into the darkness of his room, but his eyes never left her. He watched as she struggled briefly with the stiff old window, until at last she managed to push it up all the way. She looked outside into the approaching dawn, her face bathed in the faint light from the nearby streetlamp. She took a deep breath of the cool morning air and climbed up to sit on the sill.

He smiled as her petite body allowed her to sit completely within the frame of the window, her knees bent (revealing her fabulous thighs), her head resting against the wall, two stories up. She must have done this many times throughout her life, Patrick thought, but then his smile faded as he realized that she looked as if she'd been crying.

His first thought was that it was because of him, but he pushed that idea away. He'd obviously upset her earlier, but he didn't think it was enough to keep her awake at night. No, something else must be troubling her, and he instinctively felt compelled to help.

Without thinking much about the consequences, he pulled aside the curtain and leaned his head and shoulders casually out the window.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, just loudly enough for his voice to carry the ten feet to her room.

She made a little cry of startle, and for a horrible moment he thought she might fall. Her eyes flew to where the disembodied voice had come from, and she grabbed the window frame to steady herself, her other hand going to her chest. When she caught sight of him, she frowned in annoyance.

"Hey! What are you, a peeping Tom or something?" she said in a loud whisper.

He chuckled. "A peeping Patrick maybe. No, actually, it seems you and I both have a bit of insomnia. I thought we could commiserate."

She took him in now, noting in some dismay that his chest and shoulders were bare, his skin appearing smooth and California tan in the lamplight. His blonde hair seemed like a glowing halo around his head. There was a lot of irony in that, she thought, and her lips tugged with a hint of a smile. Self-consciously, she pulled her sleep shirt down over her bent knees. It was a shame, Patrick thought.

"Somehow I don't think even you are boring enough to put me to sleep," she told him.

His teeth flashed white in the darkness. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

She couldn't help her small laugh. "You know what I mean." She paused, feeling a bit awkward to be conversing with him so early in the morning, both of them half-dressed. It seemed much too…intimate. "You're using your grandmother's room?" she asked him.

"It has the nicest bed," he said. There was that suggestively husky tone again.

"Oh."

"And you're in the same room you've always had."

"Yes," she said. "I let Tommy and James each have their own rooms when they got older. And besides," she added, "my bed is still the most comfortable in the house."

"Ah."

He found it a trifle disturbing, imagining her in her bed. A twin sized canopy, if memory served. He shook his head to shake the image.

"I'm sorry if our disagreement is keeping you awake," he ventured.

"Ha. Don't flatter yourself. I've got a lot more to worry about than the conartist next door."

"Psychic," he corrected gently.

"Whatever."

"So, what is it, Teresa? Unburden yourself, and maybe you can go back to sleep."

"You are the last person I'd share my problems with."

He didn't know why that stung in particular, but he found that it did. "Try me."

He'd said that to her once before, and just like then, the way he said it, the way he was looking at her, made her feel like she should tell him everything.

"My parents' life insurance policy is running out," she confessed. "I'd hoped it would hold out until I finished college and could get a good paying job."

"I'm sorry," he said, and surprised himself by meaning it.

She shrugged. "We must play with the hand we're dealt. And pray for help from God," she tacked on for his benefit.

"Whatever lets you sleep at night—oh, wait—"

"You shouldn't have asked if you didn't really want to know," she said grumpily, resting her chin on her knees and wrapping her slim arms around them. Her tiny bare feet held his attention a moment.

He grinned. "I'm just kidding. Anything I can do to help?" Damned if he didn't mean _that_, too.

"How about you tell me what's going to happen in the future, oh Great Swami; that would be very helpful."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Wouldn't that be sacrilegious?"

"I'm testing you, just like you suggested earlier. Maybe God _has_ given you a gift—who am I to say? So, give me the whole spiel—the try _before _you buy version," she finished sweetly.

He studied her a moment, wondering how far he could go with this.

"Okay," he said. And then he closed his eyes, tenting one hand on his forehead, the other, reaching out into the morning, as if reaching into the future. He took an audible breath, and when he spoke, his voice was raspy and captivating.

"I see…a silver star. And…empty rooms. I see…a gold bridge and…an Asian man? Hmmm…I see…wait!…I _feel _a deep, passionate love surrounding you. It makes you weak yet…strong at the same time…"

_Now where had that come from?_ he thought, startled at his own words.

He opened his eyes to gauge her reaction. To his amazement, she began to laugh, a deep laugh from her belly, her eyes squeezed tight with hilarity. Patrick found he was a little miffed; that had been some of his best stuff.

"What a load of bull," she said, between guffaws. She reached up to wipe at her eyes. "People actually pay you for that tripe?"

"Yes," he said tightly, "I'm told I'm usually right."

"Well, of course you are, with predictions that general. A silver star? Well, obviously you know I want to be a cop. Empty rooms? My brothers will be leaving the nest soon, I hope. The gold bridge I'm not so sure about, but an Asian man? You might as well have said I'd meet a tall, dark stranger. I guess that he's Asian sounds a bit more mysterious." She chuckled some more, while he watched in silence, allowing her to get it all out of her system.

"What about the last thing I said," he asked slyly.

"Oh, well. I'm a little confused about that one. Do you mean I'll have a passionate affair with an Asian man?" Her eyes sparkled at him. "Sorry, but I usually prefer blonds."

His grin slid over his face like a Cheshire cat's. "Oh really? That's interesting."

She flushed scarlet when he ran a hand through his glorious blond curls for emphasis.

"Well," she said, swinging her legs back in toward her room. She looked back over her shoulder. "I appreciate the free sample, but I think I'll try to sleep another hour or so. You've successfully managed to take my mind off my troubles. Good night."

"Happy to help," he said, his smile still in place. "And you've left me surprisingly relaxed, Teresa. I think I'll catch another forty winks myself." And before his face left the window, he gifted her with one of those winks. "Good night—or good morning, I should say."

He backed away from the window and watched her window for a few more minutes as she drew the blinds again, the mischievous grin still on his face.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Dammit," Teresa muttered under her breath. "I don't have time for this."

The chain on Michael's bike had come off, and he stood off to the side, holding his backpack while she struggled to fix it. She groaned when her hand slipped, leaving a smear of grease on her work uniform. Monty had called her in to work a double shift since the morning waitress had gone into labor, so she was left with the choice of either losing her job or missing her college classes. Unfortunately, putting bread on the table easily trumped _Criminal Psychology_ and _English Comp II_.

She was already running late when Michael's bike refused to cooperate, and her other brothers had already left for school. 

"Hi," said Michael behind her. Teresa looked over her shoulder to see Patrick Jane, standing on the curb in his expensive suit.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Patrick."

He stuck out a hand, and Michael, pleased to be treated like a man instead of a little boy, shook it firmly and grinned up at him with Teresa's dimples.

"This is Mr. Jane, Michael," she corrected, still of the belief that adults should be addressed more formally.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Jane," the boy said dutifully.

"Having trouble?" he asked Teresa, sliding his hands into his suit coat pockets.

Had Michael not been there she would have bitten out a suitably sarcastic reply.

"Yes," she said, gritting her teeth as she almost got the chain on again. But it slipped off the wheel and she swore under her breath.

While Teresa continued to struggle, Patrick took off his coat and handed it to Michael, then rolled up his sleeves as he squatted beside her and the bike on the sidewalk.

"May I?" he asked, his eyes alighting first on her thighs, then sliding up to meet her eyes. She gave a little gasp at his unexpected proximity, and she caught a good whiff of his sexy cologne.

"Uh, sure," she said. "Thanks."

She stood awkwardly and watched as he expertly went to work with hands as graceful and steady as a surgeon's. She'd been struggling for twenty minutes; he fixed it in five.

"There you go," he said, standing up. He looked at Michael. "Try her out."

The boy carefully laid Patrick's coat over a nearby hedge and climbed on his bike. He rode in a circle in the street.

"He fixed it, Reese!" he called.

"It looks like it. What do you say to Mr. Jane?"  
"Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he replied with a smile.

"You'd better get going. You're already late. Tell Mrs. Bronstein I'll call the office to excuse you."

"Okay! Bye!"

"Bye!" she called.

She watched him leave, her eyes on the damnable chain, which seemed to be working beautifully. She turned to Patrick.

"Thank you," she said, and she felt tears pricking her eyes.

Before she knew what was happening, he'd produced a snowy white handkerchief and was dabbing a grease mark on her cheek, his eyes appearing bright green in the sunlight. His job complete, he pressed the linen into her dirty hands.

"You're welcome."

She watched him pick up his jacket and sling it over his shoulder, unconcerned that his dirty hands were soiling the Italian fabric. Then, like a knight in shining Armani, he strode back up the steps to his brownstone castle.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day passed quickly, though by the end of it Teresa was exhausted. Her apron pockets were stuffed with tips, however, and she'd called her study buddy on her afternoon break and was grateful she'd taken good notes for her and gotten her assignments, so it wouldn't be a total loss. She managed to get home by five, and as she climbed up her steps on aching feet, she realized she'd forgotten to call and check up on Michael after school. Her steps quickened until she was at the door.

"Michael?" she called once inside. Though it was early evening, he hadn't turned on the lights.

The boys had hockey practice so she didn't expect them to be home, and as she hung up her sweater and purse she called again. Maybe Michael had his headphones on, or was playing the Nintendo too loudly to hear.

"Michael?" She went upstairs to his bedroom. He wasn't there. All that met her was silence. Her heart pounded in trepidation, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

"Michael!" She rushed around the house, went into every room. He wasn't in the house, and his bicycle wasn't propped against the wall in the foyer either.

She ran to the phone, calling the school, but naturally, at 5:30, no one picked up. She called the school ice rink. A student answered.

"This is Tommy and James Lisbon's sister. May I talk to one of them please? It's an emergency."

Two painful minutes passed before Tommy picked up the phone, breathing hard into the mouthpiece.

"What's up?"

"Is Michael with you?" she asked, her voice pleading for it to be true.

"No. Why?"

She gulped, her eyes filling and her throat tightening in fear.

"Because he's not here! It doesn't look like he came home at all!"

"Jesus, Teresa. What is it, five-thirty?"

"Yes! I'm heading toward the school. Come home now, okay?"

"Okay. Don't panic. He's probably still at the school or maybe he went home with a friend or something."

"Oh, God, Tommy! Hurry!"  
"We're on our way, Reese."

She took a shallow, stuttering breath, then ran to the door.

_Please! Please! Please!_

This one-word prayer was the only one she could muster.

**A/N: Her worst nightmare has come true. Sorry for the evil cliffie, but I promise to write more soon. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So glad you are enjoying this story enough to leave such amazing reviews! I read and appreciate every one. Thank you all!

**Chapter 3**

The custodial staff at the school hadn't seen Michael, and Lisbon wanted to collapse with fear, but she didn't. Instead, she walked around the outside of the school twice, then retraced his usual route on foot. Halfway home, she met her brothers in their girlfriends' car.

"No sign of him," she said the moment they stopped alongside her in the street.

"Go home and call everyone you can think of who he might have gone home with," said Tommy. "James and I will drive around the neighborhoods surrounding the school. Then we start going door-to-door."

"Should we call the police?" she asked, her eyes bright with tears. She was looking to her younger brothers for advice for the first time that any of them could remember.

"Let's call first," said Tommy. "Don't need to make a big deal if we can find him with a phone call."

She nodded, but her first instinct, having not found him in the most likely place, was to call the police.

_Someone's taken him_, she kept thinking, but she couldn't bring herself to voice this incomprehensible suspicion.

"Hop in," said James, and she opened the convertible's door and got into the backseat.

Back at home, she took out the _School Directory of Faculty and Students_ and began to call.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The flashing lights of a police car caught Patrick's eye as he was walking by the kitchen window. His last client of the day had left an hour before, and a wave of tiredness had come over him after his sleepless night.

The police car was parked at the Lisbon residence, and he felt a strange tightening in his stomach. He had a strange premonition that something had happened to Teresa, and he didn't hesitate to leave his house to see if he could help.

Her front door was open, and he could see a couple of Chicago's finest inside with notepads, blocking his view of whomever they were speaking to. He knocked on the open door and went inside without an invitation.

"Hello?" he called. When he could see who was on the couch, he felt his relief like a tangible thing. The police turned to him in surprise, their hands going automatically to rest on their holstered weapons. Gold nametags designated them as Wilson and Taggart.

"Who are you, sir?" Taggart asked.

"He's our neighbor, Patrick Jane," said Teresa. "He's okay."

Patrick walked further into the room.

"What's going on here?" he asked soberly.

"Michael's gone," she said, her voice hitching over the words. Then her watery eyes widened with hope. "Have you seen him?"

Patrick frowned, shaking his head. "No. I'm sorry. Not since we fixed his bike chain this morning."  
"He was having problems with his bicycle?" asked Wilson, pouncing upon this new bit of information.

"Yes, that's right," said Teresa. "How could I have forgotten that?"

"Maybe it broke again," suggested Taggart. "Could he have tried to take it to a bicycle shop? Or maybe someone he knows offered to fix it."

"I don't know," she said. "I can't think of anyone he knows who can fix a bike."

"Other than Mr. Jane, here," said Wilson suspiciously.

"Where have you been this afternoon from three o'clock till now," asked his partner.

Jane felt a wave of anger suffuse him. "I was with clients all afternoon."

"Clients? What kind of clients? Where?"

"I'm a psychic," he explained tightly. "I run my business from my home. I had two clients this afternoon."

"Can you provide their names and phone numbers?"

"No. That's confidential information," replied Jane icily. "I haven't seen Michael since this morning, just like Teresa here."

"Just doing our jobs, sir," said Wilson, raising a dark eyebrow at his offended tone.

"Please," interrupted Teresa in agitation. "Patrick wouldn't hurt Michael."

She said this with such conviction that Patrick was extremely touched. She didn't, in fact, know him very well at all. As much as he disliked being interrogated in this manner, the police had every right to be suspicious.

"No, I wouldn't," he said, his eyes on the cops' faces. Then he met Teresa's eyes again, and he felt his heart squeeze at the anguish he saw there. The cops gave Patrick a last appraising look, then moved to take their leave.

"Okay, ma'am, we'll start running down some of these leads you've given us. Someone needs to stay here by the phone in case Michael calls."

Teresa wanted to be out searching alongside them and her brothers, but she understood the necessity of doing what they suggested.

"I'll be here," she told them.

The police brushed past Patrick on their way out the door and he immediately moved further into Teresa's living room. It was a homey house, with the same flowery furniture and antimacassars he remembered being here as a kid. She'd kept things the same since her parents' deaths, and he wondered if it was because she wanted to keep their memories alive or if she just didn't have any interior design inclinations. He surmised the latter.

She rose from the couch and went toward the kitchen.

"Do you want some coffee?" she asked. "I need some coffee."

"No thanks," he said, following her.

He watched her jerky movements as she filled the coffee pot and spooned in coffee grounds from a can.

"Can I do something to help?" he asked her.

"Not unless you can use your psychic abilities to find my little brother," she said sarcastically.

In that moment, he wished more than anything that he really had those abilities.

She paused in her work, her back to him. "I'm sorry. That was…you didn't deserve that."

Patrick stayed silent, watching her attempt to pull herself together.

"I hope your brother turns up," he said softly, and then he left her house.

She turned around in time to hear the front door close behind him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the night was a waking nightmare. Everything that could possibly occur to her regarding Michael's fate flittered endlessly through her mind, most of it horrible and heretofore unthinkable.

Her brothers dragged in after three in the morning, with nothing to report, their faces drawn and suspiciously tear-stained. The police had been patrolling all night, going house-to-house in the neighborhood, talking to the press. Michael's disappearance was reported on the morning news, along with a picture Teresa had removed from her own refrigerator door.

Any leads had turned into dead ends. No one came forward; Michael was gone without a trace. There was talk of the community organizing a search party, of a candlelight vigil that night if he wasn't found. Teresa listened to it all numbly, trying to resist curling up into a ball and crying. She had to be strong for Tommy and James. She had to be strong for Michael.

She made eggs, which she didn't even bother bullying her brothers to eat. Outside, a few local news crews were making reports on the sidewalk in front of their house. After they merely picked at their breakfast, her brothers went to try to get a few hours' sleep. Teresa didn't even try, but resignedly made another pot of coffee and sat in the living room, her eyes never leaving the family portrait on the wall.

She stared at the faces of her parents, smiling and happy. The expressions on her little brothers' faces were a bit out of sorts, because she remembered how mad they were that day to have been made to wear matching navy blue suits with little bow ties. Except for Michael, who was only two, his dimpled grin and curly mop bringing a smile even now to Teresa's ravaged face.

_God, please don't let me lose him too_. _Not sweet little Michael…_

A knock came at the back door, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her eyes flew to the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, and she set down her coffee and ran down the back stairs to the door before whoever it was could wake Tommy and James. But it wasn't the police, as she'd both feared and hoped. It was Patrick Jane. He was wet and muddy up to his waist, and out of breath as if he'd been running.

"What happened to you?"

"You need to come with me," he rasped.

"What? Why?"

"Time is of the essence, Teresa. Please…just trust me." His sage eyes were gravely serious.

Her expression quickened. "Michael?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

He frowned. "No. I'm sorry. But this is important, I promise."

Tommy suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Who the hell is this?" he said accusingly. Patrick looked like some sort of a well-dressed vagrant.

"Tommy!" Teresa gasped. "This is our new neighbor, Patrick Jane. I doubt you remember him, but Mrs. Scott was his grandmother."

"No."

"Well, I need to go out for a little bit. Listen for the phone, okay?"

"You sure, Reese?" her brother asked, eyeing Patrick with more than a hint of suspicion.

"Yes; I'll be fine. I'll be back soon."

Teresa grabbed a towel from the hall linen closet and tossed it to Patrick, who took it gratefully, wiping off a splotch of mud on his cheek. They avoided the press by crossing the small fenced backyard and slipping out of the gate, then into the alley where Patrick's taxi was waiting for them.

It was Saturday, and Michigan Park was nearly empty, save for a few morning joggers. The park was a block south of the school.

"Wait here," he told the taxi driver.

Without thinking about it, he took Teresa's hand and led her to the large pond in the middle of the park. A small wooden footbridge crossed over it, and multicolored koi swam lazily in the five-foot deep water, waiting for someone to come with a bag of bread or fish food, along with a small flock of mallard ducks who quacked at them expectantly. The outside edges of the pond were lined with tall water grasses and cattails, and it was to a thick thatch of these that Patrick led Teresa.

He parted the grass and there, concealed upon the bank, was Michael's red bicycle.

Her hands flew to her cheeks. "Oh, my God," she gasped.

Patrick had pulled the bike into the bushes so no one would bother it, and Teresa looked down at the muddy old Schwinn, her eyes welling.

"How did you know it was here?" she managed after a few moments.

"I didn't. I just had a hunch. I saw what looked like a flash of red metal from the footbridge, so I waded in."

She looked into the clear water. "You don't think that Michael—"

"No. After I found the bike, I walked every inch of this pond. There was nothing else in here but fish." The tears were running down her cheeks now and she bent and caressed the bike as if it were a part of Michael.

"This should give the police somewhere new to start," he told her gently.

"Yes." She stood and looked up into his eyes. "Thank you."

He nodded. "You're welcome."

Then, to try to give her something else to focus on, he pointed out the chain on the bike. "Look, it's not broken."

"You're right."

There went the theory someone might have been helping him fix the bike. This wasn't necessarily good news. It certainly wasn't good that someone had hidden Michael's bicycle.

"Oh, God," she said suddenly, her legs going weak. Patrick was there instantly to steady her, and he pulled her into his arms. She wept against his shoulder.

"Shh," he said, and she was grateful he didn't offer her platitudes or promises that everything was going to be all right; he merely patted her back comfortingly.

"We need to call the police," she told him, valiantly pulling herself together.

"I thought I should come to you, first," he told her as she stepped back from his embrace. "The way those cops were looking at me last night, I have a feeling this discovery might put me at the top of the suspect list."

"I'll vouch for you," she said.

He grinned, grateful for her support, but he knew they would disregard her opinion if they suspected he was a kidnapper. "Thanks. I have a few other ideas, Teresa. Some theories about who might have Michael."

"You do? Please—anything you think could be important. Have you—have you had a psychic vision or something?" Her faith was being challenged here, and he was glad he needn't disillusion her.

"I'm no psychic, Teresa," he confessed. "It's all a con. I'm just pretty good at reading people—their body language, the things they say that give them away. I can make informed predictions, but that's all they are."

"Oh," she said, her face falling. Though it went against what she believed, at this point she could fully understand why people got so desperate for information about their loved ones that they would even turn to a psychic for help.

"I wish I really could see in my mind where he was," Patrick told her. "I'd give anything to get him back for you. He seems like a good kid."

"He is," she said, then sighed. "We'll call the police, and then I want to hear what you think. Please."

Patrick went back to the cab driver and asked him to radio his dispatcher to call 911.

While they waited, they sat on a park bench, absently watching the ducks as the park began to wake up with people arriving for their weekly visit to nature in the big city.

Soon this would be a crime scene.

"I think a woman has him," said Patrick. "What's more, it's someone he knows."

She turned to look at him. "Why do you say that?"

"You've taught him not to go with strangers, and he's not a little boy anymore. If someone took him against his will, it would have been between the school and home, right? It's busy on the street when school is let out. It would have drawn a lot of attention if a boy on a bike were struggling against his captor in the middle of the street, where teachers and other parents could see him. Also, a woman would seem innocuous, escorting a child, especially one whom everyone knew and respected."

She pondered this a moment. "There would have had to be a compelling reason for him to go with someone at all," Teresa said. She'd drummed it into his head that he was to go with no one but her or his brothers unless she have express permission.

Patrick nodded. "Yes. Child abductors are very creative and convincing in what they tell children. If it's someone they respect, an authority figure, a child has also been taught to do what they're told without talking back, right? You see the confusion they might feel."

"Sweet Jesus," she said, seeing his point.

He stretched his arm across the bench behind her, his hand cupping her shoulder. "None of this is your fault, Teresa."

"Yes it is! I let him ride that damn bike to school!"

"Out of necessity, I imagine. And it's only two blocks on a busy street. Don't blame yourself; blame the sick individual who took him. Have the police questioned everyone who was at the school yesterday?"

"No. They said that was an impossible task, since it was a long time until he was reported missing and everyone had gone home by then. They just put out his picture, asked anyone to come forward who had seen him yesterday after school."

She dashed at her renewed tears. "Oh, God, Patrick. What am I going to do?"

"You're going to help me and the police figure out what woman he would have trusted enough to believe a story—probably that you or your other brothers were in danger. There's been no ransom demand. She wants Michael for herself."

"You don't think she's hurt him, do you?"

He looked deeply into her eyes, and, much to his continued surprise, he could be nothing but honest with her.

"I don't know, Teresa. Whoever did this is demented, somehow messed up about children. She could just want him to be her child. She could want him for other reasons."

He didn't have to spell it out, and Teresa felt nauseous just thinking about it.

"But I have a feeling he's alive," he said. "I don't say this just to placate you. I genuinely believe it."

She nodded, her throat so clogged with tears and fear that she couldn't find her voice. She leaned her head on his shoulder and stared sightlessly at the swimming koi.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The police arrived—the same pair from the night before—and Teresa waved them over to the bike. She explained how it was found.

"How did you know it was there, Mr. Jane? Psychic vision?" Wilson asked mockingly.

Patrick felt the familiar bite of anger.

"I have helped the police on a couple of occasions in California," he replied, as calmly as he could. "This was actually more of a gut feeling. It seemed to me that if someone took him, it would have been harder to keep track of both a bike _and _a child. They had to dispose of it somehow. This seemed like a logical place."

"Well, you should have called us first, let us handle retrieving the bike from the pond. You might have disturbed some important evidence."

Patrick felt in their cold gazes that he was indeed suspect number one. His anger bubbled over.

"Your men should have searched this park first thing yourselves," he ground out.

"It was on our list," said Wilson tightly. "It's more efficient to check the more obvious places first. It's not like we have an abundance of officers available to search everywhere in less than twenty-four hours."

As in her family, Teresa played the peacemaker.

"I know you're doing your best," she said to the policemen. "But I also think you should listen to Patrick. He seems to know what he's talking about."

"We'll get Forensics out here," Taggart said. "In the meantime, I'd like for you to come into the station for questioning, Mr. Jane."

"Why?" asked Teresa, her eyes narrowing.

Patrick held up a staying hand.

"It's okay, Teresa. Look, Officer Taggart, I've done nothing wrong. But I do have some theories you might look into.

"Sure, we'll talk theories down at the station," said Wilson

Jane was told to wait in the back of the squad car until the Forensics van arrived and Wilson and Taggart could take Patrick back to the police station.

To his surprise, Teresa asked if she could come with them.

In the back of the car, Teresa and Patrick didn't speak. Teresa was thinking of all the possible scenarios that might have led to Michael's bike being in the pond. Patrick was wondering how he'd gotten into this mess. This was precisely why he avoided personal entanglements, why he was so much better off being selfish and unfeeling. But when Teresa took his hand on the seat and looked at him with troubled green eyes, he knew why he'd gotten involved. He squeezed her cold hand in his, and she squeezed back.

At the police station, he was taken to an interrogation room, and a rotund police detective by the name of Perkins came in and sat across the metal table in a matching metal chair. He set a yellow legal pad before him, set down a black Bic pen beside that. Patrick shifted in his uncomfortable seat and looked at the man expectantly. He figured the chair was all part of the interrogation process. Break the perp down, starting with his aching ass.

"So, Mr. Jane. You discovered, completely out of the blue, Michael Lisbon's bicycle in a pond in Michigan Park?"

"Should I call a lawyer?" asked Patrick dryly. He could already see the writing on the wall.

"Not if you're completely truthful with us," said Perkins.

"Right. Well, it wasn't out of the blue. And you guys are wasting your time on me, when Michael's abductor is out there doing God-knows-what to that boy."

"Not out of the blue, eh? Did you get a tip from someone?"

"No, Detective Perkins, I used common sense." His expression clearly conveyed this trait was lacking in the Chicago Police Department. "Might I get a cup of hot tea?"

"Yeah, sure," said Perkins, but he didn't move to see to it. "Where were you between the hours of three and four p.m. yesterday?"

"Aw," said Patrick, smiling now. "There it is." Sometimes he hated being right. "Like I told your colleagues yesterday, I was with a client. And no, you may not have their names or numbers. You'll just have to take my word for it."

"It would behoove you to hand over this information, Mr. Jane."

"Funny word, _behoove_," Patrick mused. "You know, it comes from the Old English word, _behofian, _which means _to need_. Ergo—another funny word—I would say you are mistaken, for actually, I don't in fact _need_ to give you this information."

"What did you do with Michael Lisbon," said Perkins impatiently, clearly through playing Mr. Nice Guy.

"I did nothing," said Patrick. "But I think I can help you find him, if you let me."

"Because you know where he is, right?"

Patrick really wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He'd seen movies like this, an innocent man accused of a crime he didn't commit…

"You know, we could solve this whole thing if you give the Malibu and San Francisco PD's a call. They can vouch for me. I've helped the police before. One time was with a kidnapping case, as a matter of fact."

"California. That figures. Where else would the police turn to using a psychic but the land of fruits and nuts? We've run your license number, Mr. Jane. A few arrests when you were younger, for fraud and petty theft. You have a juvenile record, but that's sealed, of course."

"No convictions, on either count," said Patrick, smiling proudly. Then his face abruptly sobered. "I didn't take Michael. I only want to help find him. So, either arrest me, or let me go so I can do that."

Perkins regarded him a few moments. They both knew he had absolutely nothing on Patrick. Sure, he could hold him for twenty-four hours as a person of interest, but after that…

"Wait here," said Perkins, and left him cooling his heels in the interrogation room. He never did get that tea.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A half-hour later, Teresa slipped inside the interrogation room.

"Hi," she said shyly.

"Hi." He tried to discount how his heart skipped a little beat at the sight of her.

"Your story checked out with Malibu and San Francisco. They said you could go, but-"

"I'm not to leave town."

He slapped the table with both hands, then stood and walked around it to the door, his pants a little stiff now that the pond mud had dried on them.

"Good. Let's go."

"Go where?" she asked.

"To talk to the school gossip."

"What? Why?"

"Because they would know who was in desperate need of a child."

**A/N: I know many of you had the hope that Michael wasn't really missing. Sorry for the uncharacteristic angst, but he truly has been abducted. There's a method to my madness, however, as I hope you are beginning to see. The romance will kick up the next chapter, I promise. Thank you for reading! I'd love for you to review as well.**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Your wonderful reviews continue to amaze and inspire me. Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this installment.

**Chapter 4**

Betty Fulford lived two houses down from the elementary school, so she had a clear view of the comings and goings of the parents, students, and staff. She also had two children who attended, and she was one of those stay-at-home moms who was at leisure to be heavily involved in every aspect of their lives. She volunteered for every fundraiser, was a chaperone for every field trip, was a member of the PTA and the Booster Club. She never missed a school board meeting, or failed to campaign for a bond issue. When Teresa described her to Jane, his face broke out into a wide grin.

"She's the one," he said. "She will know who might have reason to target Michael."

Teresa looked skeptical. "I still can't believe it could be someone he knows, instead of some stranger."

"Odds are it is, Teresa, unfortunately. But look on the bright side: someone he knows will be easier to track down than a total stranger."

"Maybe…"

"Trust me," he said, and he gave her a look of such intensity that she found herself believing him.

"Okay."

Teresa took a deep breath and knocked loudly on the Fulfords' door.

A shorthaired brunette answered, and inside Teresa and Patrick could hear the sound of bickering children.

"Hey! You guys keep it down up there!" she called over her shoulder. Then she focused on Teresa, extremely surprised and somewhat shaken to see her.

"Oh, my God, Teresa. I'm so sorry about Michael." But the whole time she had one eye curiously (and somewhat in awe) on Patrick, from his handsome face to his strangely muddy Armani slacks. She frowned a bit at that.

"Uh, Betty, this is Patrick Jane, my new neighbor. He's helping me find Michael."

"Oh," she said speculatively, "how fortunate for you. Come on in. May I get you some coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you," they replied together.

By the way Betty was sizing them up, Teresa knew immediately she was filing away everything about Patrick and the implication of his coming here with Teresa. She had the feeling everyone would hear that Teresa was sleeping with a hot new man by the next morning.

Betty led them inside a living room typical of one with elementary aged children—cluttered with video games, toys, and a general state of disarray. She cleared off a chair and part of a couch so they all could sit.

"Sorry for the mess. I've been keeping the kids inside since—well, you understand."

Teresa could only nod as her throat grew tight with tears. She wished she could be her usual stoic self—the one she'd been since she'd become her brothers' sole guardian. But this had turned her world completely upside, and she seemed to have lost her usual resilience when she'd lost Michael. She glanced at Patrick, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that this man had shown up at just the right time to provide the support she needed.

If Betty Fulford saw her adoring look, it would certainly add grist to the gossip mill that there was something between them. In that moment, however, Teresa really didn't give a damn, especially when he immediately honed in on her dismay and briefly covered her hand with his as he sat by her on the couch.

"We've been asking a few questions of the residents who live near the school," Patrick lied. "We're wondering if you might know someone from the school or this neighborhood who might have reason to abduct a child."

Betty's forehead wrinkled in thought, but then her eyes grew round as a name came to mind.

"Who is it?" Patrick asked softly.

Betty hesitated. "No. It couldn't be. I—"

"Who is it? Please," said Teresa, finding her voice.

"Well…I don't want anyone to be falsely accused, but"-and she lowered her voice as if someone else was there to listen—"Miriam Gottlieb. You remember how her son drowned in the Michigan Park pond last year? Well, Miriam hasn't been the same since. Her house is like a shrine to poor little Eric. From what I hear, she still buys him toys, has left his room exactly the way it was on the day he died. Her husband finally left her about a month ago. Rumor has it he couldn't stand her craziness anymore. Eric was a year behind Michael, wasn't he?"

"Oh my God, yes," said Teresa, and her eyes flew to Patrick's. "I can't believe I forgot about that."

"That's interesting," commented Patrick blandly. "Who else?"

Betty averted her eyes. "There's a uh, convicted child molester who lives two blocks over—just far enough away from the school to meet his parole obligations- Richard Haibach."

Teresa tensed, and Patrick steered the conversation away. "Who else?" he prompted again. He gave Betty a slow, sexy smile, the one that made you believe you were the only woman in the world; Teresa knew that feeling well. "I know you've thought of someone else…"

Betty, being a hot-blooded female, responded instantly to such attention, blushing profusely before she said: "Beth Flint."

Teresa didn't know her. "Who's that?"

"She lives right next door to me, actually. She's been wanting a child for a long time. She and her husband have tried everything. I see her sitting at her window sometimes, staring at the school playground and crying. She's even consulted a psychic."

Teresa purposely avoided Patrick's eyes, but she was sure they would be alight with humor.

"That's terrible," she said instead.

"Yeah, isn't it though?" said Betty.

Jane, who was sitting close to Betty's chair, suddenly reached his hand out and touched her knee. He looked deeply into her eyes, and the dark haired woman gasped a little at his intensity.

"After we leave here, you'll forget what we spoke about. You'll remember our visit was pleasant, and that was all."

Betty's pupils grew large, overtaking the hazel irises as she stared back at him.

"Okay," she said softly, agreeably.

He squeezed her knee and smiled. "Good." Then he gave her arm a tap and stood suddenly, reaching down for Teresa's hand. Betty snapped out of her daze.

"Well," said Patrick. "It was lovely to talk to you, but we must be going."

"Oh, well, of course. Good to see you, Teresa. It was a pleasant visit."

"Yeah," said Teresa, and soon they stood back on the sidewalk in front of Betty Fulford's house, the door shutting gently closed behind them.

"What the hell was that?" she asked, as they began walking back toward their homes. "It was almost as if you…_hypnotized_ her."

"Wouldn't want Miss Busy Body spreading the news of our visit, now would we? It might get back to the kidnapper."

"No," said Teresa. "But did you really use hypnosis, and does that actually work?"

"Yes, and yes," he replied, with a small, mysterious smile.

"That's completely unethical."

"Yes, and so is kidnapping a child, so sometimes we do what we have to do to protect those we care about."

She looked at him a moment, amazed that a man who made his living being a conman could exhibit such an altruistic philosophy. She'd always been one who played by the rules, which was one of the reasons she wanted to be a police officer. Most of her life she'd seen things in black and white, but now, hypnotizing a woman without her knowledge to protect their off-the-books investigation had suddenly become a very gray area. And yes, she would do anything to find her brother, so she understood his reasoning completely.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, touching his arm.

"Thank you."

He shrugged. "You're welcome."

They walked along a little way, and then Teresa asked, "Do you really think one of these three people might have taken Michael?"

"It's a possibility."

"Who would you think, of those three?"

He made a thoughtful noise in his throat. "Well, for one, that Flint woman is obviously batshit crazy."

"What?"

"She's seeing a psychic, for one thing. I know this type of person, whose dependence on psychics goes far beyond the novelty of it; they not only believe, but they are a little obsessed with knowing the future. They think a psychic can really predict that sort of thing."

"Well isn't that the whole point of what you do?" she said dryly. "Get them to believe you so they'll keep coming back?"

"Sure, but with most of my clients, there's a healthy appreciation of the fact that I can be wrong. They believe in my abilities, but there's still enough of a grain of doubt to keep them sane. They realize when I give predictions, 'Always in motion is the future,' as the philosopher once said." He grinned at his own joke, and she laughed for the first time in two days.

"Don't tell me Yoda is your inspiration."

He shrugged, and his smile widened at how nice it was to hear her laugh again. "Whatever works."

But her good humor was short lived, so when her smile faded, so did his.

"What about the other two, Miriam Gottlieb and Richard Haibach?" she asked.

"The woman stands out the most to me. Losing a child can turn you into a different person, I've seen it firsthand from some of my clients who want me to communicate with their dead children. The pain is unbearable to them. Sometimes I wish…" his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "Anyway, I could see how desperate Gottlieb might become to end her torment, even if it meant trying to replace her child with another. But this would actually be good news," he finished.

"Because she wouldn't harm Michael," Teresa added.

"Exactly. Haibach, on the other hand," he began, and left it at that. If it was Haibach who took him, all bets were off. He needn't voice any fearful possibilities, especially when Teresa had likely thought of all of them herself. He hoped for her sake that it wasn't him.

"What now?" she asked. "Do we tell the police about our three suspects?"

"I don't know; that's up to you. I'm sure they must have questioned Haibach. Any known child molesters in the area would likely be first on the list."

"I think we should tell them. I don't want to screw things up and get Michael hurt."

"Okay," he said doubtfully, "but don't expect them to spare any more attention to them than lip service. We have no proof about any of them, no links to Michael except proximity. Besides, they have probably already spoken to them in their house-to-house search, and if nothing set off any alarms..."

She nodded, but felt compelled to tell the police anyway.

By this time they were close enough to their houses to see the milling of the press on the front sidewalk ahead of them. It was time to cut back to the alley again. They paused and ducked behind a tree so no one would catch sight of them.

"I'll go change my clothes," Patrick told her, looking wryly down at his ruined trousers. "Please call me if I can be of any more help."

She looked up at him, her eyes watering once more, this time in heartfelt appreciation of all that he'd done for her. She tiptoed up and kissed his stubbly cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

His hands came up to encircle her upper arms, and he felt a bolt of heat shooting through him at the touch of her soft lips on his skin. He looked down into her beautiful green eyes, tempted beyond measure to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she smiled again.

"Try to get some rest," he told her, and he stepped away from the temptation and let her go. He was shaking a little as they cut through a neighbor's hedge and snuck into the alley.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"They said they'll _look into it_," she told him on the phone later, her voice laced with mocking frustration. "They're not going to do shit."

"I was afraid of that," said Patrick. "How's the rest of the search going? Any new leads?"

"They weren't able to pull any prints off the bike except Michael's, mine and yours. Whoever threw that bike into the pond was careful."

"I wonder if I should call a lawyer," he said wryly.

"I think they would have arrested you by now," she said. "It's all circumstantial. After all, you touched it yesterday when you were helping Michael with the chain. And you pulled it out of the pond. Nothing you have said or done would indicate you have him, or are contradicting any of your story. Plus, you've been helping me."

"It could just be I'm trying to take your focus away from me," he told her. "That's what the police might be thinking. Police have arrested people for less."

She hesitated. "Are you trying to make me doubt you?"

He was touched by the pain and dismay he heard in her voice. He stopped playing devil's advocate. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry."

They were both silent a moment, emotions and thoughts they couldn't express flowing wordlessly across the line.

"Now, go to sleep," he gently told her again. "Drink some chamomile; it might help you relax."

She sniffed a little, and he knew she was trying valiantly not to cry again. He was bone tired himself, but if she'd asked him to come over, he found he wouldn't have hesitated. What the hell had gotten into him?

"Okay," she said finally. "You too."

"Good-bye, Teresa."

They both lay down, Teresa on her bed, Patrick on his grandmother's old couch, but neither of them slept much, thoughts of suspects and each other whirling endlessly in their brains.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day passed slowly, with no word, no new leads. Patrick didn't take clients on Saturdays, but he almost wished he did, if only for something to get his mind off Teresa and Michael. By three o'clock, his restlessness and endless cups of tea led him to the phonebook his grandmother had kept conveniently near the telephone. He opened it, and found the three names he was looking for.

He called a taxi, then Teresa.

"Meet me in the alley," he told her.

"What? Why?"

"We're going to continue our own investigation," he informed her. "You game?"

"I'll be right there."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"I should really get a car," Patrick said under his breath after he told the cab driver to wait outside Richard Haibach's house.

"I'd be happy to help you with the fare," Teresa offered, but Patrick just shot her a raised eyebrow. He could certainly afford it, but it was a pain in the ass not to drive himself, something most Californians were used to doing. But when he'd come to claim his grandmother's inheritance, he'd had no intention of staying in Chicago. The clients he'd been seeing had been friends of California clients, and he'd met them as a courtesy to his loyal customers back home. It was funny, however; since he'd met Teresa Lisbon again, he hadn't thought much about his life back in California.

She looked over at him surreptitiously, noting his change of suit, though this time he wore no tie. On his feet were what appeared to be brand new, brown leather oxfords, his older ones having been caked with mud.

"Nice shoes," she commented.

"Thank you. These are so damn comfortable, I don't think I'll ever wear another pair."

She couldn't believe she was small talking with him while her brother was out there somewhere, suffering God only knew what fears or abuse. She sobered and looked out the window at the quiet street, seeing nothing, while Patrick grew thoughtfully silent.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They climbed the steps to Richard Haibach's house and Patrick knocked on the door.

"You sure you don't want to wait in the car for this one?" he asked, looking at her meaningfully.

He felt the reassuring weight of his handgun in his suit coat pocket, something he hadn't mentioned to Teresa but had felt compelled to bring along. He didn't like guns much, but they were necessary protection when traveling in the carnival circuit, and though he no longer did that, he'd never gotten out of the habit.

"I'll be fine," she said, but he could tell she was nervous.

"Who is it?" asked a tentative voice behind the heavy door.

"Richard Haibach," said Patrick in his most authoritative tone. "We're investigating the disappearance of Michael Lisbon. May we have a few words?"

The door opened a crack, and the face of a tall, slender, awkward young man appeared.

"The police have already been here. I don't know anything about this kid. So, unless you plan to arrest me, I suggest you get off my property or I'll press charges for harassment."

He started to close the door, but Patrick stuck his foot inside, then forcefully pushed open the door. Haibach took an involuntary step back.

"It'll just take a minute of your time," Patrick said, moving into Haibach's dank living room. Teresa followed after him, her body tense with trepidation. This was the home of a convicted child molester.

_Dear God, please help us not to find Michael here._

"Where were you two days ago, at about three o'clock in the afternoon when Michael Lisbon disappeared from the elementary school?"

Patrick was looking closely at the man's eyes, trying to read him, to pounce if he gave away even a hint of a lie.

"I was at work at One-Hour Photo. My boss already vouched for me with the police. Who the hell are you guys, anyway?"

"Let's just say we're more like private investigators."

"He's my brother," Teresa couldn't resist saying with undeniable venom.

Patrick cringed internally. Didn't she know anything about a con job? Should Haibach call the police about this, he could now identify Teresa.

"So you can see we're particularly motivated." Patrick's hand dropped to his pocket, and Haibach followed its movement, his eyes widening when he correctly deduced he had a weapon. Patrick watched the man's eyes shift quickly to the hallway and back.

"What's down here, Richard?" he asked, moving quickly down the hall.

"You can't go down here. Where's your warrant?"

"We're not the police, Richard." Patrick's hand now slipped inside his pocket, taking the gun in hand, his finger sliding off the safety lock.

He passed what must be Haibach's bedroom, but then there was another room at the end of the hall, the door closed. He opened the doorknob and walked inside, Richard and Teresa right behind.

Patrick glanced at the felon, who was purposefully looking everywhere but at the large wardrobe. He opened it, finding only moth-scented overcoats and folded sweaters.

"See," said Haibach nervously. "There's nothing in here. Nothing at all. Now get out of my house before I call the police."

Patrick met the man's frightened eyes. "You sure you want to do that, Richard?"

On impulse, Patrick stepped back from the heavy wardrobe, his hands going once more to the outside. He shook it from side to side, surprised to find it was on wheels. He glanced at Teresa with a hint of satisfaction, then slid it away from the wall, revealing a hidden door.

"No!" cried Haibach moving with violent intent toward Patrick. He held a heavy glass vase from a nearby table.

From the back of her jeans, hidden until then by her blouse, Teresa pulled out her own gun, quickly pointing it at Haibach.

"Drop it."

He did, the vase falling to the carpeted floor with a thud without breaking.

Patrick gave her a brief smile of admiration and gratitude, and opened the secret door.

Inside was a bedroom decorated for a little girl, complete with pink lacy bedspread and pretty dolls.

"What the hell is this, Richard? said Patrick in disgust. "Somehow I don't think your parole officer would find this amusing."

"It's nothing," he stuttered. "It's for my niece who's coming to visit."

"Somehow I doubt that, you sick bastard," said Patrick benignly. He looked at Teresa.

"Michael isn't here," he said confidently. "Richard apparently likes little girls."

Teresa walked over and put her gun to Haibach's head.

"If I hear of a girl going missing, I'll be sure to steer the cops in your direction, understand me? And I'd forget any plans you had for this room."

He swallowed hard, his eyes huge in his thin face. "Yeah."

"And if you don't want your parole officer knowing about this little violation, I suggest you forget we were ever here," added Patrick darkly.

The pair backed up out of the room and made their way quickly down the hall and back outside.

"That demented son-of-a-bitch," she said, putting her gun away as they walked down the stairs to the taxi. She looked back up at the house, shaking with adrenalin at what they'd just done, worried for what Haibach still might be planning.

Patrick was already contemplating an anonymous call to the parole board.

In the back of the taxi, he impulsively took Teresa's hand and brought it to his lips.

"Nice gun by the way," he said dryly. "We make a pretty good team." He smiled into her emerald eyes.

She smiled back. "Yes," she said, and the admiration he saw there, combined with the residual rush from the tight spot they had just been in, brought something to the fore in Patrick's heart, making it thump with a sudden wildness.

Without thinking, his head dipped and he closed his eyes, fastening his lips to hers. She gasped a little in surprise, but then her lips parted and she was kissing him back with the same abandon. He pressed her back against the seat, delving deeper into her warm mouth with his tongue, her empty hand going to his hair. He shivered as her fingernails brushed his scalp, the passion taking hold of him like wildfire. On and on it went until they forgot where they were, forgot for a few moments the evil of the world outside the backseat of their Chicago cab.

"Hey, lovebirds," said the driver, shaking his head as he watched them in his rear view mirror. "The meter's running here."

Not that it wasn't something he'd seen before. Countless times.

Trembling even more than when they were in the pedophile's house, Jane released her, settling himself back on his own side of the seat.

"3520, uh, Elm," he said to the driver, his breathing unsteady.

Beside him, Teresa was in much the same condition, the shock of their kiss making her mind go blank. When she realized he still gripped her hand, she laced her fingers with his, holding him fast, unwilling to break their connection as the taxi continued down the tree-lined street.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! More romance and mystery soon! **

**P.S. Also, I really appreciate those of you going back and reading my older stories. So cool to have found new readers!**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Again, I thank you for your reviews. I'm sorry I haven't been responding personally, but I'm reading and loving every one. Remember, if you ask questions, be sure to log in so I can answer.

**Chapter 5**

Teresa was in the untenable position of trying to focus on her missing brother while her blood still hummed from the passionate kiss she'd shared with her next-door-neighbor. She couldn't seem to let go of Patrick's hand as they sat in the back of the taxi, but they didn't speak, each of them trying to gain control of their whirling emotions.

They pulled up in front of Miriam Gottlieb's small house, and Teresa felt a new sense of doom come over her. This woman had lost her son in a horrible accident. She remembered how he'd been missing for two entire days before he was found in the reeds beside the Michigan Park pond. She might be looking into the face of her own future, if, God forbid, Michael never came back.

"Be gentle with her," Teresa said before they rang the doorbell. "She lost a child."

He looked at her sidelong. "Do you want to be nice, or do you want to find Michael?"

"Can't we do both?"

He didn't answer, but pressed the button and waited.

Miriam Gottlieb answered the door herself, surprise written on her face at the identity of her visitors.

"Teresa."

"Hi, Miriam. This is my friend, Patrick Jane. Could we talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure. Come in, please."

They followed her inside a simply furnished, unnaturally quiet house. No sounds of children, a television, or even a radio. The blinds were drawn, the lights were low, and in more ways than one, it felt like a tomb.

They sat in her living room and after offers of tea (which Patrick accepted), Miriam got right to the point.

"I've been watching what's going on on the television. I've been thinking about you, Teresa. I know we don't know each other very well, but I—I just want you to know that I understand what you're going through." Her eyes welled with tears, and she wiped them with the back of her hand. "I just hope and pray that you find Michael."

"Thank you," said Teresa, her own eyes going misty. "That's why we're here. We thought you might have some insight…"

Miriam sniffed and nodded in understanding. "I saw on the news that they found Michael's bike in the pond. The same pond that my Eric—"

"Yes," said Teresa. "It's been terrible. Why would someone do this? Why would someone take him?"

Patrick had remained quietly observant, sipping the tea Miriam Gottlieb had brought him. On every table and shelf were photographs of her dead son; no other art decorated the walls. A year later, and this was still a woman in deep morning. He rose and began to look more closely at them, noting that the boy's father only appeared in one or two pictures.

"May I use your bathroom?" he asked suddenly.

The women looked at him in surprise at his first words since they entered her house.

"Sure," said Miriam. "Down the hall and to the left."

"Thanks."

But Patrick didn't really need to use her facilities; he was on a fact-finding mission. Like the rest of the house, the hallway was very dim, with a small nightlight on the wall to light the way to the bedrooms and bath. He paused beside an open doorway—Eric's room. Just as Betty had said, it looked like a young boy had only just left it. He walked inside.

Eric had loved _Star Wars_, if his bedspread and curtains were any indication. Action figures, Leggos, video games, little league equipment and other boyhood paraphernalia littered the room just as it must have the last day of Eric walked out of here. Even the bed was unmade, and a pair of dirty jeans lay haphazardly over his small desk chair. Patrick wondered if Michael's room looked like this back at Teresa's house. His brows knit in worry, and he abruptly left the room.

He continued down the hall to the only other bedroom. It was dark as night, the windows covered with black fabric and room-darkening blinds. He flipped on the light and looked around the feminine room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The bed was neatly made. He checked the walk-in closet, felt the walls for hidden openings. He stood and listened, but could only hear the sound of a clock ticking and the distant murmur of the women's voices.

He turned off the light and left Miriam's bedroom. There was a hall closet that held only linens. He shook his head. Nothing about the house suggested anything more than a woman held hostage to her own grief. Aside from Eric's room, there was no sign of masculine habitation. It was as if her husband had never existed.

Just for show, Patrick entered the bathroom, flushed the toilet, then turned on the water in the sink and washed his hands. He rejoined Teresa and Miriam, meeting Teresa's eyes with a slight shake of his head.

"We should go, Teresa," he said, reaching for her hand. "Thanks for the tea, Miriam."

Teresa appeared startled at his rudeness, but went along with him, thanking Miriam for her time and receiving a nearly bone-crushing hug from the grieving mother, a whisper of the promise of prayers for Michael.

"That was weird," said Teresa in the taxi.

"Yeah," said Patrick, oddly affected by the visit. He had become more somber, though he reached for Teresa's hand and held it loosely on the seat between them.

"Are you okay?"

He looked at her in faint amusement. Her brother was missing, and she was asking if _he_ was okay?

"I'm fine. Just…" he shifted a bit uncomfortably in his place. "Anything to do with children being hurt or lost really gets to me."

"You love children," she said, and she felt a hopeful warmth suffuse her.

"Yes," he said. "I grew up on the carnival circuit, so the soundtrack of my childhood was the laughter of children, you might say." He smiled softly in remembrance.

"You don't think Miriam has Michael, do you?" she asked him.

"No. She doesn't want a replacement for Eric; she just wants Eric."

Teresa nodded. "I agree. While you were gone—searching the house I assume—she only wanted to talk about him. It was very sad."

"The entire house was sad." He brought her hand to his lips, just as he had earlier before their kiss. "We'll find Michael. I promise you."

She wanted to believe him, but after visiting that house of pain, Teresa's hope was considerably dampened.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Beth Flint recognized Teresa at once from the story she'd been following on the news. The police had already been there on their door-to-door search, but she seemed quite surprised to see Teresa herself, the guardian of the poor missing neighborhood boy.

"I've already spoken to the police," Beth said. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

"That's all right," Teresa replied. "I'm just doing a little checking on my own. I'm going crazy just sitting around waiting for the police to do everything. I had to take some things into my own hands."

"Oh, well, that's understandable. How can I help?"

"May we come in?" asked Patrick.

"Of course. Please."

Patrick and Teresa immediately noticed the living room was the first room, situated with a window facing the school. A chair and a lamp table were arranged directly in front of the picture window so its occupant could easily watch the comings and goings around the school and on the street. An empty cup of what used to contain coffee was still on the table, the curtains open to the view.

"I've brought my personal spiritual advisor with me. This is Patrick," Teresa told her. "He's been very helpful in the search, and his insight led me here."

Beth's eyes widened. "What? Why here?" She didn't even question the use of a psychic.

Teresa nodded toward the window. "You must have seen something," she said. "You're so close to the school…"

"Yes. I enjoy watching the children play." When that sounded understandably strange, she flushed and hurried to explain. "I love kids. I've been trying to have one of my own."

"Oh?" said Patrick, pretending as if this were news.

"Yes." She teared up a little, then delicately cleared her throat. "But like I told the officers, I didn't see Michael that afternoon."

"Have you seen him before, on other afternoons?" asked Teresa.

"Why, yes. On the red bike. I watch him ride home everyday. Cute kid. Always smiling."

Teresa swallowed. "Yes; that's Michael."

They were invited to sit down on yet another couch in another living room, but Patrick chose to stand, wandering around the room as he had at Miriam Gottlieb's, observing the tasteful knickknacks, her wedding pictures, the artwork. Everything seemed to speak to him in some way, Teresa noticed.

Teresa spoke more about Michael, while Patrick asked once more to use the restroom. On a hunch, he went directly there. After shutting and locking the door, he went immediately to the medicine cabinet above the sink. His eyes rested upon to the ovulation predictor kit, a thermometer, prescription fertility drugs. This woman was doing everything she could to have a baby of her own. She didn't want someone else's.

He left the bathroom and went back to the living room, where he squatted in front of Beth's chair, heedless of interrupting their conversation. He looked up into her eyes, taking her off guard with the unexpectedness of the action. Then, he took her hands in his. She was too shocked to move or speak.

"Beth," he said gently. "Stop worrying. You'll have a baby one day, I promise you. And you'll have a boy."

She gasped. "What?"

"You heard me." He held her eyes for nearly a full minute, breathing slowly and deeply, until her breaths matched his. By the end of that minute, silent tears were falling down Beth's wan cheeks.

"You're really a psychic?" she said, seeking reassurance of all her deepest wishes.

"Yes, I am. You must believe what I say is true. Relax, and the baby will come."

He let go of her hands and rose to his feet.

"Teresa, I think we should go."

"No, wait—" said Beth, rising anxiously. "What's your full name? Where can I find you again?"

Patrick smiled warmly. "I'm Patrick Jane." He pulled out a business card from his pocket. "I've recently come from California, but I'll be in Chicago awhile. I wrote my local number on the back. Call if you'd like to set up an appointment."

"Yes. Yes, I will, please."

Teresa, who'd been watching the entire performance in awe, joined Patrick on his way to the door.

"Thank you for your time," she said to Beth.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more help. I'll pray you find Michael soon."

"Thank you."

Back in the taxi, Teresa turned to Patrick in annoyance. "What the hell was that? Making business contacts while we're looking for my little brother?"

Patrick shrugged. "She doesn't have him, Teresa. Why should our visit be a total loss?"

Her mouth fell open in shock. "I don't believe you. And that was particularly cruel, don't you think? Telling her she was going to have a baby? How could you possibly know that?"

"I looked in her medicine cabinet. She's doing everything right to try to conceive. Chances are, she will; I've seen it time and time again. When a couple relaxes and stops trying so hard, nature often takes over, et voila: a baby appears."

"There's some logic in that. But how could you possibly know she'll have a boy?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Fifty-fifty chance, right? And hey, if she does conceive, she'll be so happy to be having a baby she wouldn't care if it had a tail."

He turned on the seat to face her. "Look, this is what I do. I'm sorry if you disapprove , but I like to think what I'm doing is helping her. Giving her a little hope."

"And you don't think she'll be torn up about it if she never has a baby?"

"Oh, she will. But if that happens, she'll give up and adopt. Probably a boy. And remember, I never said she'd become pregnant. There's my out as a psychic."

She shook her head. "Unbelievable."

"Sorry if you disapprove."

And he was, actually. Seeing that look of distaste in her eyes was more dismaying than he would have thought.

"At any rate," he continued. "She doesn't have Michael, and that was the main reason for our visit."

"And if she doesn't have him, we're at square one again," she said, her face appearing haggard and vulnerable once more.

"Let's go home then," he said. "Maybe the police have found something else."

"Maybe." But she was sounding hopeless again, just the way he didn't want her to feel.

He gave directions to the driver, who did a neat u-turn and took them back down the street.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Where have you been, Reese?" said Tommy angrily the moment she and Patrick came up the back stairs.

"I told you I was going out for awhile. Patrick and I were doing some of our own detective work."

Tommy looked skeptically at the psychic. "Right. And who the hell is he to even be involved in this?"

"Don't be rude, Tommy. Patrick is the one who found Michael's bike, remember?"

He gave an adolescent _humph_.

Patrick stuck out his hand to the teenager. "We haven't been formally re-introduced, Tommy… James. I'm Patrick Jane. Nice to see you again after all these years. You two are now the men of the family."

Teresa gave her younger brothers a sharp look, and reluctantly Tommy shook his hand, followed by a slightly preening James. Poor James, she thought. He desperately needed a father figure. Patrick bestowed his brightest smile, to which Tommy not so subtly rolled his eyes. Patrick's grin widened.

"Did you find anything?" James asked his sister.

Teresa hung her key on the hook in the kitchen and automatically began making coffee. Without permission, Patrick began rooting around in their kitchen cupboards in search of tea. He brought out a small box of chamomile in triumph while Teresa handed him the teapot from a lower cabinet.

"No," she answered succinctly.

"Yes," Patrick replied instead. All eyes flew to him. "We weeded out three suspects," he pointed out, waiting his turn to fill the teapot at the sink.

"Have the police found anything new?" Teresa asked the boys.

"Not that they're telling us," said Tommy. "But a group of neighbors have gathered together a search party, and they are expanding the search beyond our neighborhood. Tonight there's going to be a candlelight vigil at the school."

"Can we go?" asked James.

Teresa bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't cry. "_May _we," she corrected automatically, then: "Sure."

She kept her back to them while she flipped on the coffee maker. Close beside her at the stove, Patrick set his tea water to boil and glanced at her pale face. He reached over and turned off the coffee maker.

"Hey!" she protested.

"Tea," he said softly. "Then a nap, okay?" Her bleary green eyes met his. She nodded once. It felt so good not to have to make all the decisions for a change.

He turned to her brothers.

"Your sister needs a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep, after she has some tea and something to eat. Can you two see to it she's not disturbed?"

"We know how to take care of our sister," said Tommy in annoyance.

He didn't take the bait by turning this into a confrontation. "Good," he said simply.

He took Teresa's hand and led her to the kitchen table, then went to their refrigerator. "Anyone hungry?" he asked, critically scanning the shelves inside.

"We made frozen pizza earlier," said James.

Patrick nodded, then brought out the ingredients for an omelet. Before the water for tea had even boiled, he was expertly filling the concoction in the pan with cheese and jarred mushrooms, frowning that this was certainly no gourmet kitchen they had going here. He plated the steaming omelet and set it before her, then filled a mug with hot water and a teabag. He quickly whipped up his own meal and sat across from her, while her brothers, bored now, went back to the television.

"This is delicious," she said, surprising herself by quickly eating the entire thing.

"Thanks. I'm glad you found your appetite." He was both pleased and amused at her sudden ravenousness.

"I meant it about that nap, Teresa. You need to at least lie down and rest. The tea should help."

She sighed, pushing her empty plate away and dunking her teabag. "I'll try."

He grinned. "That's all I ask."

When he was satisfied that she'd drunk her entire cup, he rose and took her hand, leading her up the stairs while she shot a nervous look toward her brothers, still in the living room on the couch. She didn't want them to get the wrong idea.

"I'll be right back down," he murmured. "They won't even know I came up here."

At the doorway to her bedroom, he pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry we hit more dead ends. I felt certain…" He was looking sadly down into her tired green eyes, and he reached up to brush her hair from her forehead.

"Don't apologize," she whispered. "If anything, you gave me something constructive to do, rather than go crazy here at home."

"Still-" he began, but she pressed her finger to his full lips, effectively cutting him off.

"I'm grateful, Patrick. For everything." She gave him a small smile. "Especially the omelet."

His smile returned, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

This kiss was soft and gentle, meant to lull and comfort, though their passion quickly escalated until he was tempted to back her into her room and lower her to the bed. They were both mindful of Tommy and James downstairs, however; so, after a few heated moments, he reluctantly lifted his head.

"I'll come by later, if that's okay,"

"Please," she said. She was just as reluctant for him to leave, though an unexpected yawn escaped her. He grinned, kissing the tip of her nose.

"Sleep," he ordered, and forced himself to release her.

She watched him head toward the stairs. "Patrick," she called. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Teresa."

And then, with a last gentle smile, he was gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three hours later, the nightmare awoke her, and Teresa sat up in bed, sweating, tears coursing down her cheeks. The image of Michael floating face-down in the pond had seemed terrifyingly real. She glanced at the digital clock by her bed, surprised she had slept so long, wondering how much longer she might have slept had her dream not been so alarming.

She rose and went across the hall for a quick shower. Downstairs, her brothers had fallen asleep on the couch. She went into the kitchen and called the police department. No news. No new leads. Outside, the crowd of reporters and supporters seemed to have decreased, as if they too were beginning to realize the futility of it all.

She felt the passage of time as a convict might the wait for his execution. She was petrified and oddly resigned. She knew from her Criminal Justice studies that the longer the wait after an abduction without hearing anything, the more likely the victim was dead. But she pushed down those fears. This time it was going to be different from the textbooks, if she had anything to do with it. There would be a _happy_ ending to this case study. Besides, it wasn't in her nature to give up, especially when it was someone she loved.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Unlike Teresa, there was no rest for Patrick. He sat with his second pot of tea, going over and over in his mind every moment of their visit with each suspect. None of them struck him as kidnappers—well, except Haibach, but Patrick was certain Michael wasn't in his house. It was certainly possible that it wasn't one of the three he and Teresa had interviewed, but something told him that he was on the right track. He wasn't a psychic, of course, but he was seldom wrong about his evaluation of human behavior.

Betty Fulford was the key to everything, he knew it in his gut. Maybe the busy body was holding out on them, protecting someone, throwing them off by giving them a list of likely names. He set down his cup. He would go to Betty's house again, this time with a closer eye on _her_. She wouldn't pull one over on him again. He owed it to Teresa, after putting her through an afternoon of hellish interviews with depressed and unsavory people.

_Teresa._

In just a few short days she'd managed to burrow past his defenses, past his bullshit artifices to find what he himself had been hiding. For so long he'd put up this uncaring wall—he had to in order to live with himself and the job that he did. But one look into Teresa's frightened green eyes and the moral young man who used to defy his father, who remembered the kindness of his mother and grandmother, had emerged from deep within. He wanted to help her, to help Michael, and he wanted nothing in return but to see her smile for longer than a moment without crying.

He didn't know what this meant for his life now. On Monday, his appointments with wealthy clients would continue, and they would pay him inordinate amounts of money to tell them what they wanted to hear. Frankly, the whole idea was beginning to disgust him. After today, he found he hated being lied to or conned, as he had by the likes of Betty Fulford. He hated thieves and bullies and kidnappers worst of all. When he'd told Beth Flint his prediction, it had been out of sympathy. It had also been for free—handing her his card had been his last-ditch effort to remain true to his persona. Teresa's disapproval had put a damper on that—maybe permanently.

But he didn't have time to dwell on all these new revelations. He would return to Betty Fulford's home, and he would hypnotize her again if he had to. She would be no match for a determined Patrick Jane.

**A/N: Moving right along. Next chapter, the mystery will come to a head, and part of the chapter will be rated M ;). I hope you'll be back to find out what happens. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: So glad you are continuing to enjoy this story. Thanks again for all the great reviews and favorites. They really do compel me to keep writing, so keep 'em coming, please! This chapter is M-rating toward the end, by the way.

**Chapter 6**

Evening came, and the neighborhood search party turned up nothing. The candlelight vigil was set to begin at the elementary school, but Teresa found herself instead seeking solace in her childhood church farther down the street, not coincidentally called St. Michael's. Her mother had named her youngest brother after the archangel, and Teresa prayed his spirit would help lead them to Michael's safe return, that the saint would help them conquer the evil person who had taken her brother.

Teresa entered the quiet church and went to the front to light a candle, then sat in a front pew to pray. Patrick hadn't called her as he'd promised, and with her brothers at the vigil, she was feeling as alone as she had felt after her father's death. She prayed as hard as she ever had in her life, trying to find her faith when she'd had nothing at all to encourage her. She whispered her heartfelt prayer to the statues of Jesus, Mary and Saint Michael.

_Dear God, please let him be safe and not afraid. Help him to come home soon. I'm so frightened, Lord. Please, give me strength. Holy Mary, Mother of God…_

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick was tired of taking a cab, so he chose to walk the two blocks to Betty Fulford's house. As he drew closer, he could see a large group of people assembling at the elementary school, pinpricks of light illuminating the deepening night. He was almost upon Betty's house when he saw her emerging, candles in hand. Something told him to duck behind the hedge near her steps, and he peered through the foliage as she shouted a last second command to her children.

"You three boys lock yourselves down in the basement, you hear? It's not safe out here. And don't answer the door or the phone."

She shut the door, then turned her key in the lock.

Patrick frowned as an odd thought occurred to him. _Three_ boys? Teresa had said Betty had two children. His heart thumped. Of course, it could mean nothing. Her kids probably had a friend over. Odd that she was leaving a group of elementary children alone with a child abductor on the loose. From what Teresa had told him, most parents were bringing their kids with them to the candlelight vigil. Odd indeed.

He waited until she was out of sight and mingling just down the street with the other of the vigilant at the school. He moved from behind the hedge and sidled quickly through the narrow passage between the close-set houses, then gracefully climbed over the low, locked gate to the back yard.

Just below the first floor level of the Fulford house, two small windows allowed light to stream into the basement below. Just as he'd expected, the windows were lit from within. Patrick lay flat on his stomach to peer inside. Through the wavy glass he could just make out three small figures, sitting on bean bag chairs before a television, playing video games. The backs of their heads were to him, but something in the bearing of the smallest boy made him catch his breath catch.

_Holy shit._

It was difficult to tell if Michael had been hurt or abused in any way, but he didn't want to be caught by his captors and end of making things worse.

He didn't want to frighten the boys, but he also didn't want to waste time finding a phone to call the police. Being a carney had given him an ingrained aversion to law enforcement, for most of the time they'd handled things on their own. Police tended to make things more…complicated.

As quietly as he could, Patrick stood and crept across the lawn to the back door. He tried the knob, but wasn't surprised to find it locked. The thought of Teresa's face upon being reunited spurred him on, so from his wallet he withdrew a small lock pick and made quick work of getting inside.

Once inside, he stilled to listen. Suppose Betty's husband was inside? He heard nothing; only the sound of the children and the electronic noises of their game. The basement door was locked as Betty had ordered, so he spent a precious few minutes picking that lock too. Slowly, he turned the knob.

They were so involved with the game that at first the boys didn't notice him.

"Michael," Patrick said softly.

He turned his head and looked at his rescuer in surprise. He squinted at him curiously. They'd only met the one time, after all, and Patrick had a sudden pang of regret. What if he scared the kid and he began to scream…?

"Mr. Jane?" he said, still holding the game controller in his hands. The other kids didn't seem fazed at all that a strange man had entered their basement. They continued playing their game like ten and eight-year-olds would do.

"Yes. Are you all right?"

The boy shrugged. "Sure. Is my sister home yet?"

Patrick's brow furrowed. He didn't seem upset at all about being held captive in some strange woman's basement.

"What do you mean? We've been looking for you for two days."

He blinked wide eyes and paused the game.

"Why? Mrs. Fulford said Reese had to go on a trip and that I could stay here for the weekend. She picked me up from school and everything. She had a note from her saying it was okay…"

Patrick decided now was not the time to upset him.

"Look, boys, you stay here and I'll go call your sister and tell her I'm bringing you home, okay?"

"Okay," said Michael.

_What the hell kind of looney tunes was this woman?_

Patrick went upstairs to the kitchen and dialed Teresa's home. No one answered. He sighed, his eyes dropping down to the basement door indecisively. He couldn't just take Michael and leave the other kids alone, especially when their crazy mother might return any minute. Reluctantly, he dialed 911.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

No one could find Teresa. She wasn't at the vigil. She wasn't at home. Tommy and James were found at the school, but they didn't know where Teresa was either. Patrick had thought of another place to look for her, but he'd kept that information to himself, and, after being released from police questioning, he flagged down a cab and followed up on yet another hunch.

The last time he'd been in a church was with his grandmother when he was a kid. She'd been a devout Catholic herself, and though he hadn't mentioned it to Teresa, he understood what faith could mean to people. It had meant a lot to Grandmother. He'd never personally witnessed any of God's miracles, but he saw that praying was a comfort to some. To Patrick, God—if He even existed- was merely a source of unnecessary guilt.

St. Michael's was a beautiful old church a block past the school. The bells still rang throughout the day, an hourly reminder for its parishioners to stay faithful. Teresa sat in the candlelit dimness of a front pew, her head bowed in prayer. He made himself walk respectfully, when he would have liked to run to the front of the church; a few other parishioners dotted the pews in the sanctuary. He sat in the pew right behind Teresa, forcing himself to hold back a moment just to watch her, the tracks of wet tears glistening upon her cheeks. His heart swelled at the picture of her grief and worry, then sped up again at the thought of the happiness he was about to give her.

He reached a tentative hand to her shoulder, and she jumped at his touch.

"Teresa," he whispered. Her head whirled around in surprise.

"Patrick? What are you doing here?"

He couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face. His hand moved to caress her cheek, his eyes softening as she looked at him in wonder.

"I found him, Teresa," he said. "He's okay."

She let out a little cry of shock, then her hands went to her face, her small body shaking with her sobs of relief. He went around to her pew and gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, dampening the shoulder of his suit jacket, her arms around his waist .

"Thank God, thank God," she murmured over and over again.

After a moment she pulled back from him and dabbed her eyes with the tissue already clutched in her hand.

"Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He's with the police, and your other brothers are with him. Michael's completely unharmed, both mentally and physically. Just a little surprised at all the fuss."

"Where was he?"

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go outside so we can talk," he told her. Outside in the cool evening, they found a bench in the church garden and sat down again.

"He was in Betty Fulford's basement," Patrick told her, "unaware anything was amiss."

She gasped. "Betty? Why? She has children of her own. Why would she do such a thing?"

"When they picked her up at the candlelight vigil, confronted her with what she'd done, she got very…testy. She said she'd seen how Michael rode alone to school every day. She saw how you never came to any PTA meetings, never volunteered at the school. You knew nothing of what was going on in your little brother's life. She said you weren't fit to be a mother to the child, were too young and inexperienced, too irresponsible. So when she saw that Michael was late to school one more time, she decided to teach you a lesson."

At every word of his speech, Teresa became angrier and angrier until she couldn't even speak. Sensing her burgeoning fury, Patrick continued his explanation.

"Betty had planned only to keep him for the weekend, then take him back home and explain that had she really been a pervert, Michael would be dead by now." He shook his head, still in disbelief at the actions of the woman.

"She's a very sick individual obviously," he told her. "That's why I didn't read her correctly when we were at her house. Someone who believes their own lies, who has no concept of boundaries, can fool even the best experts on human behavior. But I'm still very sorry I couldn't see it before, Teresa. I really am."

She sniffed, then touched his warm cheek. "No, don't be. It's certainly not your fault. Dear God," she realized, "he was in her house when we were there. But what about her husband? Her kids? Why didn't tell anyone? It was all over the news. The police were even there…"

"Her husband is estranged, Teresa. It's funny how well the town gossip can make sure no one knows her business. She's been telling everyone he got a job out of town. When they contacted him, he was living on the other side of the city. Said he'd left her six months ago because he noticed how _off_ she'd become. He'd been trying to get the kids away from her, but she seemed so normal in front of a judge and social workers, that he hadn't been successful, could produce no evidence she was harming them. As for her kids, Betty had told them the same thing she'd told Michael—that you were on a trip and asked her to keep him for a few days. She made them keep the television off, telling them the news was too upsetting. And because there was a so-called child abductor on the loose, she wouldn't let them play outside."

"Dear Lord," she said. "I can't believe she saw nothing wrong with what she did. The hell she's put us all through!"

He shook his head in remembrance.

"You should have seen her, Teresa. Still railing against you, even as they cuffed her and dragged her away from the vigil, still claiming it was all your fault, that she was doing you a favor. But you've done the best you could for your brothers, sweetheart. And from what I've seen, done one hell of a good job, too. Don't let this sick woman make you doubt yourself."

"But part of what she's saying is true, Patrick. I _am_ too young to be doing this. It's too much responsibility. I've made so many mistakes-"

He took her by the shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes by the light of the nearby streetlamp. "Stop it, you hear me? I refuse to let you beat yourself down. Every parent makes mistakes, Teresa, but then few of them are in the same position that you are. Two teenagers and a young boy to raise at the age of twenty-one? When your folks died, you could have given up, placed them in foster care, and no one would have blamed you. You were just a kid, yourself."

She held his gaze, touched by his heartfelt words, by the intense conviction she saw in his eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered, and she leaned in to kiss him gently on the lips. His hands convulsed around her arms and he deepened the kiss, pouring into it all the support and admiration that he was feeling for her, and the beginning of another emotion, too fragile yet for him to name.

"Take me to him," she said after a moment. "I have to see how he is for myself."

He grinned at her. "No blind faith that he is okay?"

"I have faith in God; just not in that crazy bitch, Betty Fulford."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick watched from his window as the Lisbon family headed to mass the next morning. As they walked past his house, Teresa looked up and saw him peering down at them. She smiled and waved, her other arm around Michael. Patrick smiled back. Patrick had been invited to attend with them, but he wasn't quite ready to give in completely to living the lives of the righteous, despite the uncharacteristic selflessness he'd exhibited over the last few days.

Truth be told, he needed some time away from Teresa, for he found that when he was around her, he forgot who he really was: a conman who lived for the money and the adoration he received from those he conned. A woman like Teresa could make him begin to question everything he'd once valued, could turn his whole world upside down. He didn't know how to feel about that.

The night before, he'd actually felt tears pricking his eyes as he watched the reunion between Teresa and Michael at the police station. He was caught up in the nearly tangible love and gratitude, as she kissed the boy all over his face and head, hugging him despite his embarrassed squirming to be free. Michael had had no idea of any of this, had suffered no ill effects, but Patrick could see in Teresa's eyes the fearful knowledge that this could have ended so much worse.

After they left, Patrick decided to take a walk in the other direction to clear his head. He still had no idea where home was going to be now, whether he would return to his old life in California, or try to start a new one here in Chicago. He could think of a few reasons to stay here, of course, one of which had curling mahogany hair and sultry green eyes.

With all that had happened in such a few short days, he had a lot to think about.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I was really surprised when Mr. Jane came in Mrs. Fulford's basement," said Michael idly, on the walk back from church. "I thought she had come back early. She'd said she was bringing back ice cream."

Teresa stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to look down at her little brother.

"What? _Mr. Jane_ found you? I thought maybe a neighbor, or the police or something…"

In the excitement of their reunion the night before, the seemingly endless paperwork with the police, she hadn't even thought to ask _how _Michael was found; it had only seemed relevant to know _where_. How had she missed this vital bit of information? A lot of it must have been the sheer emotional exhaustion of the past two days.

"Yeah," Michael was saying. "He was really nice. He made the policeman get me an ice cream."

"That's right, Reese," said Tommy. "I heard him tell the police that he'd seen Michael through the window, and since he knew that Fulford bi—lady—was gone, he tried the doors. They were left unlocked. He felt the kids might be in immediate danger, so he went inside, found Michael, then called the cops."

"He's a hero isn't he," said James.

"Yes," said Teresa absently. "He certainly is."

The moment they got home, Teresa threw an apron over her church clothes and went to work in the kitchen. She wasn't the best cook, but her mother had taught her how to bake, and she'd been much more talented in that department. She could make the most amazing chocolate chip cookies*, if she said so herself.

While she creamed the sugar and eggs, she thought of Patrick, of their kisses the day before, how they'd made her feel so excited, so desired, so warm. Even now, a thrill ran up her spine just thinking of how handsome he was, how humorous, how brilliantly intuitive. And yes, he'd been her hero, and she hadn't even realized to what extent. There was a humility within him that he seemed only to feel when it came to the most serious matters.

She didn't care much for his profession, and his stand on religion was a bit jarring to her sensibilities, but it didn't seem to Teresa that he wasn't completely closed off to her opinions. Maybe in time…

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, Teresa," she whispered, putting the first batch of cookies into the oven. He'd given no indication that his stay next door was anything more than a visit, a brief vacation. She shouldn't get too attached.

An half-hour later, and she was putting cookies on a plate to take next door, being sure to leave some for her hungry boys.

"Lock the door behind me," she told Tommy. Glancing over to where James and Michael were watching an old martial arts movie, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "And don't let Michael out of your sight."

Tommy didn't even roll his eyes. "I won't," he said seriously.

Perhaps he too had done some growing up these past few days.

"Say hi to Mr. Jane," Michael called.

"I will. And don't eat too many cookies, guys; you'll spoil your dinner."

She pocketed her keys and waited until she heard Tommy turn the bolt behind her.

When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she stopped to stare at the new occupant of Patrick's driveway. It was a small, light blue, foreign car of some kind that looked like it had driven straight out of an old movie from the late sixties. Did he have a client in there? She didn't think so, not on a Sunday. Some other visitor perhaps?

She looked down at her plate. _No,_ she told herself. _This can't wait. If he has company, I'll leave them the cookies and thank him properly later._

Switching the plate to one hand, she knocked. The door opened almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting for her.

"Hi," Patrick said, his smile almost shy. He was very casual in faded blue jeans and a turquoise polo shirt. His feet were bare. He looked so incredibly sexy she nearly forgot why she was there.

"Hi," she managed, then proudly held up the plate. "I made cookies."

"With your own two hands?"

"Yes. They're still warm."

"Well by all means, come in, Miss Lisbon."

She preceded him into the kitchen, setting the plate on the counter, pleased to find they were alone. He immediately put on the tea kettle, then got out a box of assorted teas and the familiar old teacups. She watched his graceful movements, smiled as he hummed an unfamiliar tune under his breath while he moved about the kitchen. He caught her staring and met her eyes, and she felt her face flush at what she saw there.

"Where'd the jalopy come from?" she asked, trying to avoid confronting these overwhelming feelings along with the underlying tension in the room. He smirked slightly, as if he knew exactly what she was doing, but he humored her anyway.

"That, my dear, is my new ride."

He reached for a cookie.

She raised an eyebrow. "_New_?"

"New to me. I won't have you besmirching my new Citroen. It's a classic, I'll have you know."

"Uh-huh. Pretty color."

"Robin's egg blue. I was taking a walk earlier and an old guy had his garage door open. I made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

"Congratulations?"

He ignored her sarcasm. "Thank you."

He took a bite of the warm cookie, and his eyes practically rolled back into his head with exaggerated pleasure. "Oh my…Teresa…these are heavenly."

She grinned. "Thank you."

He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, then unashamedly grabbed another.

"You've already welcomed me to the neighborhood," he said, mouth half full.  
"To what do I owe the appearance of this latest gift of delicious baked goods?"

"It's a thank you. For all you did to help find Michael. Including going into Betty Fulford's house," she said meaningfully.

He averted his eyes, oddly uncomfortable with her praise.

She took a tentative step closer to him. "Why didn't you tell me you'd done that? You couldn't have known what you were walking into. That woman was crazy."

He swallowed his last bite. "That wasn't important. It was more important to get the kid back."

_And just as important to see the smile return to your face_, he thought, but found he lacked the courage to say it aloud.

"Well, I'm grateful you brought him back to me safely, more than you could possibly know."

"And so the cookies," he said.

She nodded. "I wish I had something more to give you."

His heart skipped a beat.

"Some milk would have been nice," he joked, though his eyes were solemn.

"Sorry."

She looked bravely into his compelling green eyes. Then, she went up on tiptoe, her lashes drifting closed as she pressed her lips to his. He tasted of bittersweet chocolate and vanilla. Delicious. Patrick didn't hesitate, the hunger in her kiss enflaming his senses immediately. Mouths melding, he found her tongue, sucking it gently into his mouth, the sound of her soft moan fueling him further.

He pulled her against his body until she could feel his desire straining against his jeans. The teakettle whistled, and without breaking their kiss, he reached behind him and turned off the burner. The tension, the fear, the closeness of the past few days overtook them both, and his hands became frenzied with the need to get even closer. He backed her toward the kitchen table, and it took little effort at all to lift her up, setting her petite body gently upon it. From a distance, he heard her practical little ballet flats drop off her feet to the linoleum. He stepped between her legs, causing her navy blue skirt to ride up to her thighs. His hands went to the buttons of her feminine white blouse as he continued the sweet assault on her mouth. Only when he'd pulled aside the garment did he break their kiss to look down at her, lovely round breasts encased in white lace.

"You are beautiful," he said, his rapid breathing forcing him to whisper.

He watched in delight as a blush suffused her delicately pale chest beneath the golden crucifix she wore. While that might have been a warning to some men, it certainly wasn't enough to dissuade Patrick Jane. Watching her eyes, he cupped her breasts through her bra, and she let out a soft gasp when his thumbs brushed the hardened peaks. Her eyes darkened, which Patrick took as a clear indication to continue, cross notwithstanding.

His hand released the front closure of her bra, and she shivered as his soft hair brushed over her skin before his hot mouth found her nipple. Her hands came up to bury in his hair, following his head as he moved to the other breast, suckling and licking until she began to see stars.

At the same time, she felt his warm hands caress her bare thighs, felt them tremble as he moved inexorably toward their juncture. Beneath the skirt that had gathered at her waist, he found her white bikini panties. They were damp beneath his hand as he gently cupped her sex. His head rose to kiss her again, while he pulled her underwear aside enough to slip his seeking fingers inside. The thatch of dark hair was soft and welcoming, and he parted her to find the engorged little pearl, circling it and pinching it lightly while his long middle finger slid inside her body. Her hips bucked up off the table and she practically sobbed with the pleasure he was giving her.

He took her to the brink of madness, before abruptly moving his hands to the waistband of her panties. He drew them down her lovely, smooth legs and tossed them aside, the did the same with her skirt. His own shirt followed, landing on the floor beside her shoes.

"Lie back on the table," he commanded hoarsely. Her heartbeat was nearly deafening in her ears as she complied. He pulled out a chair and sat before her, then, after arranging her legs to rest on his shoulders, he lifted her bottom with his hands.

He paused again to admire her, and she snuck a peek up at him through half lowered lashes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly in anticipation. When he met her eyes, she felt her lower body suffuse with liquid warmth. With a wicked grin, he lowered his mouth and began to devour her.

It was embarrassing to Teresa how quickly she came, but the moment he began to lap at her with his talented tongue, she shuttered uncontrollably against his mouth. But he wasn't finished with her yet. He soothed her sensitized flesh gently with his tongue as she rode out her climax, but soon began again, more tentatively at first, her soft _oh's_ and _ooh's_ spurring him on. He was relentless in bringing her pleasure, slowly increasing the pressure of his tongue while she gripped the edges of the table for dear life. It wasn't long before she was writhing against his mouth once more, her cries echoing in the small kitchen.

"Oh, God…Patrick…"

He kissed her inner thigh before lowering her limp legs from his shoulders to the table. He sat back in the chair to admire his handiwork. She felt absolutely drained, satisfied in a way she never could have imagined. When she opened her eyes at last and found him watching her, a smug smile on his lips, she sat up on her elbows in acute embarrassment. Her blouse hung open, her bra cups hanging uselessly at her sides.

She glanced down at the bulge in his jeans, wondering what he was waiting for.

"Aren't you going to…?" she began shyly.

He smiled gently at her. "No," he said. "I didn't think you'd want to lose your virginity on my grandmother's kitchen table."

She was mortified. "But—"

He stood and reached for her hands, pulling her to a sitting position before him. He dropped a brief kiss on her lips to quiet her.

"Teresa. A week ago, I wouldn't have hesitated, trust me. But I find that you bring out the gentleman in me, and I can't for the life of me seem to shake him off."

He reached up and smoothed a tangled lock of hair behind her ear, his hand remaining there, tenderly cupping her head.

"You don't have to be a gentleman now," she whispered, just as her hand snuck down to caress him outside of his jeans. He let out a satisfying hiss, but he stayed her hand with his, closing his eyes briefly as he searched for control.

"Teresa—"

"We don't have to do _everything_, Patrick, since you seem to have this hero complex where I'm concerned. But I'd still be happy to help you with your uh…little problem down there…"

Beneath his hand, she pressed harder against the fullness in his jeans.

"Little?" he growled in protest.

She chuckled throatily, pleased with her sudden power. Moving her other hand to his waistband, she unbuttoned him, then took hold of the tab of his zipper.

She leaned forward and kissed his chest, swiping her tongue across each masculine nipple. His breath caught before he emitted a soft moan, and she felt him jump beneath her hand. He dropped his hands to his sides in defeat.

Smiling in triumph, she hopped down from the table and slowly lowered his zipper…

**A/N: Phew! I crammed a lot in this chapter, I know, but I couldn't seem to stop writing. I chose Betty Fulford as the kidnapper, thinking those of you who recognized her name from the show would see that this behavior would have been totally in character for this unconscionable psychopath (She was the nosy neighbor/murderess from Devil's Cherry). **

**To go along with the lusty kitchen sex, I've given you a bonus recipe for Teresa's chocolate chip cookies below. They are actually my daughter's specialty, and we've modified the original **_**Better Homes Cookbook **_**recipe over the years to make it our own. Hope you are inspired to make some. Let me know how they turn out :).**

**Thanks for reading. I'd love to read your reviews! This story has one more chapter, but look for the continuation of my fic "The Long Gray Ribbon" as well as additional tags for The Super Duper Tag Project, coming soon. **

***Teresa's Amazing Chocolate Chip Cookies**

½ cup shortening

½ cup margarine (1 stick), softened

1 cup brown sugar

½ cup granulated sugar

½ tsp. baking soda

½ tsp. salt

2 eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

2 ½ cups flour

12 oz pkg of Ghirardelli Bittersweet Chocolate chips (or another brand, but these make the best cookies!)

1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 375.

Beat shortening and butter on high 30 seconds. Add sugars, baking soda, and salt. Beat until combined. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Beat in as much flour as you can with the mixer, then stir in any remaining by hand. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts.

Drop cookies 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 8-10 minutes or until edges are lightly brown. Cool on wire racks.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! You are too kind. And really, the last chapter wasn't meant as a cliffie, or to be mean. I figured you all knew what was about to happen, and I left it to your imagination. Don't worry, there will be more sexytimes ahead.

**Chapter 7**

Patrick felt weightless and free, and it wasn't just because Teresa had given him incredible pleasure with her mouth and her hands. It was because he had barely thought about his own wellbeing for three days, and it had been…liberating. When Teresa looked at him, she saw, not a conman or a psychic, but a hero. _Her _hero. That was almost as great a reward as the oral sex.

They sat on the cold floor of his grandmother's kitchen, their backs against the wall, eating chocolate chip cookies with tall glasses of milk (which as it turned out, he had on hand for his tea). She leaned her head on his shoulder; he put his hand casually on her bent knee.

"Seriously," he was saying around his full mouth. "These are the best cookies I've ever tasted. And it's not because I tend to get hungry as a bear after…"

She grinned up at him, her body pleasantly languid.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. You could quit college and go into the cookie-baking business."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not exactly Betty Crocker. These cookies are about the only thing I can make that didn't come out of a box."

"That's okay," he said, turning her face toward him with his index finger beneath her chin. "I think I could live quite happily on these things. Well, and something else just as sweet…"

He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her lazily but thoroughly enough that he began doubting his own decision not to take her completely, right here in this kitchen. He forced himself to pull away before things got too out of hand.

"I don't get it," he said, resting his head against the wall again. She snuggled into his side, her head on his chest now, his right arm holding her close. "How did a girl as beautiful as you manage to fight off all the young Lotharios out there?"

She blushed. "You mean, why am I still a virgin?"

"Mine was actually a rhetorical question, Teresa, but I think I already know the answer to _your_ question."

She snickered. "Of course you do, Mr. Psychic."

Patrick was never too shy to show off a bit.

"Okay, I accept your unspoken challenge to my mind-reading skills. One would think that you remained pure because of your religious convictions—and that might be part of it, but only a small part, I suspect."

"I think I should feel insulted by that," she said wryly.

"Don't be. The reason you've abstained is much more honorable, in my opinion. You, my dear Miss Lisbon, have simply not had the time."

"You mean, after raising three boys on my own, working full time and going to college?"

He squeezed her tightly for her sarcastic tone.

"Precisely. And it hasn't been because you haven't had offers—"

He felt her hum of agreement, as she thought of how many times she'd been hit on at the diner.

"-because there have been plenty, I'm sure. But you are much too tense and particular to give yourself to anyone."

He almost laughed when she tensed, and he could almost hear her mind revving up for a fight. She pulled back from him angrily.

"_Too tense_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Now, Teresa, don't be offended. Tense in that you have so much on your plate that you never take the time to relax."

This seemed to placate her somewhat. Her tension lessened, but she still was miffed.

"I didn't mean frigid, if that's what you thought."

She had, of course.

"Well, I'm not."

He thought of how she'd fallen apart beneath his mouth, how she'd given him the best blow job of his life.

"No, sweetheart," he said, his eyes dark with his lustful thoughts, "you are far from frigid."

And to prove his point, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her until they were both hot—_very_ far from frigid. And then the phone rang. It rang five times before they both realized that whoever was calling wasn't giving up.

"It might be the boys," she said against his mouth.

Patrick swore and Teresa got up from his lap so he could to answer.

"Hello."

_Mr. Jane? Is my sister there please?_

"Certainly, Michael. One second."

Teresa's eyes went wide with alarm and she jumped to her feet, fearful something else had gone wrong. Patrick held his palm over the mouthpiece.

"He sounds fine," he whispered. "Take a breath."

She did, her heart still pounding from their interlude on the floor and her instant dread. She wondered if she'd ever get past that feeling.

"Michael? Is everything all right?" She tried to sound as calm as she could, and Patrick squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

_Tommy and James won't let me watch Scooby-Doo, and you said we were celebrating so I could watch whatever I wanted…_

She grinned and shook her head in relief. _This_, she could handle. She put on her angry big sister voice.

"Well, you tell those boys to let you watch _Scooby-Doo_, or they'll be grounded for a week."

She could hear Michael repeating her words in the background, then heard her brothers protesting because they wanted to finish watching the Bears game. Apparently it was a very exciting one, if the yells at a touchdown were any indication.

"They won't do it, Reese!"

Teresa sighed. "I'll be right over. Don't argue with them anymore." She hung up the phone. "Duty calls," she said in disappointment.

He kissed her gently, sorry to see her go.

"Thank you for the cookies," he said. "I can't believe we ate them all."

"_We?_ I had exactly two," she said, raising an eyebrow. There had been a dozen or so on the plate to begin with.

"Sorry. I have a healthy appetite." His expression was absolutely wicked. She blushed. He took her hand and walked her to the door.

"May I see you tomorrow?" he asked hopefully, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

"I have to go back to work, I'm afraid. I was lucky I got a few days off because of Michael. I guess not even Monty is that heartless. Still, it was unpaid leave, so I'll be working seven days straight this week to make up for it, and maybe some double shifts."

"Well, if you can find the time for me, I'd like to see you again. And not just for cookies and milk."

Teresa smiled. "I'll try to fit you in."

His eyes grew serious. "You might not feel like you're ready yet, Teresa, but when you are…I'd be honored if you chose me."

When they'd been in the midst of finding their mutual pleasure, she had wanted him, and he could have taken her virginity on the kitchen table very easily. But afterwards, despite what they had done, she had felt a bit like she'd dodged a bullet. He'd been right; her first time going all the way should be more special than a quickie in the kitchen.

The fact that he'd known what she needed even when she herself hadn't, seemed to be a sign to her that perhaps he was _the one. _It also occurred to her that wanting him in that moment had been bound up with her gratitude for all he'd done to find Michael. He must have realized that and took pity on her-well, if giving her her very first orgasm with a man was _pity_.

"Thank you," was all she could think to say. "You'll be the uh…second to know."

They smiled into each other's eyes, and then, with a swift kiss on his cheek, she left, but she felt his gaze following her protectively down his steps and then all the way back up hers to her door. Before she unlocked it, he gave her a slight wave, and his widest, most charming grin.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Teresa was in a quandary. The police were still holding Michael's bike for evidence, and she had to get him to school at the same time she had to catch her bus for work. If her other brothers took him they would be late too. No way in Hell was she letting him walk by himself, and she was still unsure if she'd let him ride his bike again when he got it. She'd have to talk to Monty to change around her schedule, and she wasn't looking forward to that. In the meantime, there was this morning to figure out.

She was about to call Monty and beg him to let her come in late, when they heard the sound of a car honking outside. She peeked out the window, and Patrick had pulled his Citroen directly in front of their house. She realized immediately what he was doing, and she felt her eyes fill with grateful tears.

"Get your backpack, Michael," she ordered, her throat tight.

They descended the steps and stood beside his car. He reached over and rolled down the passenger window.

"This your car, Mr. Jane?" asked Michael, his wide green eyes very reminiscent of his sister's.

"Yep. How would you like a ride in it to school this morning?"

"Really? Can I, Reese?"

"May I," she corrected.

"May I?"  
She met Patrick's eyes, and saw nothing but kindness there.

"Sure. That would be so helpful."

He grinned. "Well get in then—both of you."

"Cool," said Michael excitedly, and climbed in the back seat.

"Both of us? You don't have to—"

"Let me help you, Teresa," he said softly. "Besides, it'll give me more time to see you, what with your busy work week and all."

She shook her head at him, in disbelief of his generosity.

"Okay," she said. She vowed to herself it would only be this once, and only this time because she was in a bind. "Thank you."

Patrick reached across the seat and opened the passenger door for her, and she took the hand he extended to help her inside. She felt the familiar tingle at his touch, and she resisted the temptation to lean over and kiss him. But she wouldn't, not with Michael in the back seat.

He drove to the school first, and Teresa asked him to wait until she saw Michael go all the way into the school. The moment the door closed behind him, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding, and leaned back against the seat.

"He'll be fine," said Patrick. "I'll be here to pick him up after school, if you call the office for me."

"Don't you have clients to see?"

He hesitated. "Not today." The truth was, he'd cancelled all his appointments the night before, for the entire week.

"I don't know how to thank you, Patrick, seriously. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but why do you keep coming to my rescue?"

They had stopped at a traffic light. "I don't know," he said honestly. "It's really not my style. Helping women and children…" _Instead of conning them, _he finished to himself.

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Would you believe I'm just trying to get in your pants—again?"

"Yes," she said dryly. "But there's more to it than that."

The light turned green and Patrick drove through the intersection, heading toward Monty's Diner. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

_Because it feels good to be needed._

_Because I'm tired of being alone._

_Because I like the way you look at me._

_Because I want to be worthy of you._

A hundred different responses came to mind, but Patrick wasn't ready to say any of them. He didn't feel he had the right.

"You need help. I want to help you." Well, that was true enough.

"And I am grateful. But I can't allow myself to depend on you so much."

He glanced sharply at her.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll be going back to California one day soon, and all my old problems will still be here, and I'll have to get used to handling them on my own again."

He chose not to get into the California thing, mainly because he hadn't made up his mind on that subject yet.

"Well, I'm here now. Let me take some of the burden off you for awhile. Consider it a mini vacation. Everyone deserves a break, Teresa. Besides, I have the means and the time—not to mention the perfect ulterior motive." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She chuckled. "All right. Fine. I accept. But you have to let me buy you breakfast at Monty's. I get an employee discount."

"Breakfast isn't exactly what I had in mind."

She reached over and touched his smooth morning cheek. "But that's all I can give you right now, Psychic Man."

He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm. "Well, eggs are a poor substitute, but if that means I can watch you sashaying around the diner in that cute little dress of yours, I'll make do. For now."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick picked up Michael that afternoon and took him for ice cream, then back to Teresa's house, where they tossed the baseball around in the back yard until the older boys got home from hockey practice. At ten o'clock that night, he pulled up in front of the diner and drove Teresa home. This time he was rewarded with a passionate kiss, claiming he didn't mind that her hair smelled like hamburgers.

And so it continued in this way the rest of the week. While he waited with Michael after school, some days he'd help the boy with homework, and one day Patrick let him help change the oil in the Citroen. Teresa was a little annoyed later that Michael had gotten grease stains on his good jeans, but then Patrick pressed her against the side of the car and kissed her into a much more forgiving mood. She didn't find the greasy handprints on the seat of her skirt until the next morning.

Sometimes he and Michael just sat on the stoop and talked, or Patrick taught him little magic tricks to impress the girls. Patrick found he liked the boy, liked his eagerness to learn, liked the way he looked at him in awe when he first showed him a trick, or showed him an easier way to solve a math problem. He'd loved kids since his carnival days, and he had to admit his time with Michael was fulfilling a need he hadn't even realized he'd had before. Things were getting dangerous, and much more complicated than he liked. But he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Each night he would look out his bedroom window at hers, waiting for her to turn out her light and get some sleep. He always frowned to see it was generally around midnight by the time the light went out.

She was mostly working sixteen-hour days, which left little time for much more than a tired kiss good night. He constantly relived that last Sunday he'd spent with her in his kitchen until he thought he might go mad with wanting. He couldn't wait for the next Sunday, when she would be off the whole day. After church, he planned to whisk her away for a picnic in the park. Visions of making love to her on a blanket did nothing to curb his unfulfilled desire, however.

On Saturday morning, he had her all to himself since Michael didn't have to go to school.

"I didn't expect you this morning," she said, after sliding in next to him in the car.

He shrugged. "I've become addicted to Monty's eggs."

She smirked. "Since you showed him a better way to make them, you mean."

She smiled, remembering how he'd started up a conversation with her boss one morning about the best way to scramble an egg, and eventually wormed his way into the kitchen. His impromptu cooking lesson had turned the skeptical Monty into a true believer. He vowed he'd never make eggs any other way, and indeed, they'd become a real hit with the regulars. Teresa couldn't believe her usual taciturn boss had been so open to change, and he'd done it with a smile. She'd vastly underestimated Patrick Jane's charms.

"Which goes to show that you can, in fact, teach new tricks to old dogs, eh?"

"I guess so."

They were quiet for a few minutes of the drive, and Patrick sensed something weighed heavily on her mind.

"What is it, Teresa?"

"It's nothing."

"You're too quiet for it to be nothing. It's definitely something. Come on, spit it out-you'll feel better. That's what you Catholics believe, isn't it?" He gave her a teasing grin.

"Too bad you're not a priest."

"That's what my mother used to say."

She sighed. "Do we have to get into this now? We're almost to the diner—"

He pulled into a convenience store parking lot, turned off the engine, and turned his whole body to look at her.

"You've got twenty extra minutes to get there, Teresa. Plenty of time to get whatever this is off your chest."

She looked at him, knowing him well enough to know he wasn't going to let this go. But how could she say this without sounding ungrateful?

"It's just that…I'm worried about Michael."

"What about Michael?"

He had an inkling of what she was going to say, but he wanted her to say it aloud, to put all her cards on the table so then he could figure out his own next play.

"I don't want Michael to get his hopes up. About you, I mean. He barely remembers our parents, and while he has his older brothers, they're not ready to be fathers to him. They still fight over the television with him, for God's sake. And they shouldn't have to step into the role of parent. They should be allowed to enjoy their last years as kids."

"_You_ didn't have that privilege."

"My point exactly."

"And you think I'm not worthy to be a father figure to Michael?"

"That isn't what I said, Patrick. Certainly not what I meant. On the contrary; I think you'd make an excellent father. And Michael adores you. Everything these days is _Mr. Jane this_ and _Mr. Jane that_. You've become a rock star to him, and that's the problem."

He tried to ignore the warmth he'd felt as she'd described his merits as a father figure.

"Because I'm leaving," he added without emotion.

The very thought of that eventuality made her eyes water, and she swallowed hard over the lump in her throat. "Yes," she whispered sadly.

"You want me to back off?" he asked tightly.

"Yes. No. I don't know," she said, agonizing over the words. "Maybe you should start preparing him. Start talking more about heading back to California soon, so that when it happens, it won't be such a shock."

Patrick was quiet, mulling over her words.

"This isn't just about Michael. It's about you and me, too."

"Yes."

"But you owe me nothing, Patrick. I'll find some way to deal with your leaving. Michael though—he's just a little boy."

He didn't want to think of her dealing with his leaving. It gave him a sharp pain in the vicinity of his heart. He reached down and turned on the engine.

"I know," he managed. "You're right."

She blinked rapidly and turned to look out the window as they rode the rest of the way in silence. He stopped in front of the diner, but made no move to park or get out.

"You're not coming in for eggs?"

"No," he said. "I'm not hungry."

She hated that she had apparently hurt him.

"Oh. Well, goodbye then." She reached for the door handle.

"Are you okay to take the bus home tonight? I have a few errands to run this evening."

"Of course. I'll be fine. Thanks for the lift—for _all_ the lifts this week. And for helping with Michael. It was a relief not to have to worry about him so much for a change. I really appreciate it, Patrick. More than you know."

Before she could leave, he dragged her across the seat and into his arms, kissing her hungrily, heedless of the cars honking at them to move on. He breathed in her fresh floral fragrance, tugged gently at the soft waves confined in her ponytail. Teresa could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand on his chest, and a wave of fear and regret washed over her. There was an urgency emanating from him, a sense that he was trying to remember this moment, remember her. His kiss tasted of farewell, and not just for the day.

He pulled reluctantly away and looked into her shining eyes. "Come for a picnic with me tomorrow after church."

She thought of the loads of laundry she'd put off all week. "Yes," she heard herself say, mainly out of relief that she would be seeing him the next day after all.

He nodded, and his familiar, good-natured grin returned. "Good. I'll take care of everything. See you then."

"Good-bye," she said, and got out of the car.

She stood on the curb and watched him drive away, trying not to think that, despite his invitation, she was watching him go for the last time.

**A/N: Don't mean to tease you, but I had thought I could wrap this up in one chapter. Turns out, I can't. So one more, one more chapter! This time I really mean it. Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about reviewing. I love to hear what you think.**


	8. Conclusion and Epilogue

A/N: Well, here is the end of this little fic. Thanks to those who took the time to review—both my loyal readers as well as the new ones I've picked up along the way. I hope you find this chapter to be a satisfying conclusion. It's partly rated M, just so you know.

**Chapter 8: Conclusion**

That night after work, Teresa looked out her bedroom window at Patrick's house. It was eleven o'clock, and his window was dark. She wondered hopefully if he was asleep. His car had been in the driveway when she'd gotten home, but the kitchen light had been off. He seemed to keep strange hours though, and if she woke in the night to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, she would glance between the slats of her blinds and see movement or light next door. Tonight, she would swear that no one was home, and once again she had the feeling he was gone. Perhaps for good.

She wouldn't cry, she told herself. What they had had was beautiful, and she could never repay him for finding Michael, but she'd known from that first kiss in the taxi that there was no future with him. Not with a conman who prostituted his God-given talents to take advantage of the desperate and the gullible. She tried to forget that he had never been that way with her. Michael wouldn't understand, but at least he had taken her advice and left before any of them had become too dependent upon him.

She dropped the slat of the blind back into place and went to her bed. She tried reading from her Criminal Justice textbook, but the words blurred together. She was weepy and sad, and suddenly tired to the marrow of her bones. Giving up, she set the heavy tome upon her nightstand and turned out the light.

"Good-bye, Patrick," she said into the darkness.

It was a long time before she finally drifted off, only to sleep fitfully upon a pillowcase wet with tears.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

As Teresa and her brothers walked past the next morning, Teresa tried to avoid looking at Patrick's empty house. Still, her eyes flew to the kitchen window, expecting to see his smiling face there, maybe see him wave wryly as the pious passed the devil on their way to church. But she turned away painfully when the curtains didn't stir.

"Mr. Jane said he'd teach me to drive his car sometime," Michael was saying.

"You couldn't even see over the steering wheel, squirt," said James, ruffling the boy's hair. Michael shied away and tried to slap his brother's hands in annoyance, but James easily sidestepped him and laughed.

"I can too," Michael protested. "He let me sit in the driver's side and listen to the radio."

"Boys," chastised Teresa automatically.

"I'm surprised that old clunker even runs," Tommy said. "Guy with that much cash could have bought a Porsche or something…"

The conversation changed as did the scenery, but Teresa only listened with one ear, her heart heavy, her thoughts on Patrick. She still held out a bit of hope that he would miraculously appear for their promised picnic, but when they walked by on their way home from Sunday mass, that hope fizzled in her chest. The house still looked as empty as it had the night before.

And so she made their lunch of cheeseburger macaroni and a salad and they sat around the kitchen table as usual, the older boys discussing afternoon plans with their girlfriends, while Teresa ended up giving most of the contents of her plate to Tommy. She had no appetite. With a shaky sigh, she decided to do some housework. She changed into jeans and a t-shirt and set to work. Michael soon joined her in the laundry room.

"Reese, don't forget Brittany's mom is picking me up to go to her birthday party at one."

"Oh, that's right. You guys are going to a matinee." It had slipped her mind, and she immediately felt like a terrible sister. She tried to be cheerful for his sake, tried not to be afraid that he would be out of her sight the rest of the afternoon. "What movie are you seeing?"

"That _Flintstones _movie."

"Sounds like fun," she said. "Did you need any money for popcorn?"

"Nope, Brittany's mom is paying for everything."

"That's very nice of her, Michael. You be sure to say thank you."

"I will. Mr. Jane and I picked out a really cool present for Brittany. He had it wrapped and everything."

Teresa stopped in her laundry sorting to stare at him. She'd only had time to pick up a birthday card from the drugstore near the diner, and was just going to slip some money into it for the little girl's gift. But Patrick had bought a _present_? A wave of grief suddenly overwhelmed her, and dropping an armful of jeans, she pulled Michael into a startling hug. Tears sprang to her eyes and she kissed the top of his tousled head.

How could she tell him that Patrick would no longer be a part of his life?

"Reese," the squirming boy complained. She reluctantly let him go, sniffling a bit and wiping surreptitiously at her eyes.

"You'd better go change out of your church clothes," she told him, eyeing his spiffy little suit and tie. "You don't have much time before they'll be here."

"I'm going to wear it to the movies," he proclaimed. "Mr. Jane wears a suit all the time. He says a man should always look his best; it impresses the ladies."

This elicited an involuntary smile from her, and she shook her head, while a hard lump formed in her throat.

"Okay, but don't get any popcorn butter or birthday cake on it; we can't afford the extra dry-cleaning."

"I won't."

She watched him walk jauntily out of the small room, then, as the washer filled with water, she muffled her sobs with her hands.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ten minutes after the house had emptied of boys, the doorbell rang. Had one of them forgotten something? Their keys perhaps?

She peaked through the peephole, her heart swelling when she saw it was her neighbor. She leaned her forehead against the cool door, willing her pulse to slow. She couldn't believe he was there. She truly couldn't believe it. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

He was carrying a picnic basket and a bouquet of apricot roses, clad in his usual three-piece suit, though without the tie. Michael had been right—she was indeed impressed, but more so with his sparkling eyes and amazing smile. He also sounded slightly breathless, as if he'd hurried to get there.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he began, and then in one glance, he appeared to deduce everything she'd been feeling for the last twenty-four hours. His smile dissolved into a frown. "Teresa?"

She wordlessly stepped aside and he walked into the foyer, while she turned her back to close the door. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she desperately tried to pull herself together.

When she faced him again, his expression was filled with trepidation.

"You thought I wouldn't come," he said. Then his eyes widened as he saw the extent of her worry. "You thought I had left for good."

"Yes," she whispered hoarsely, then cleared her throat. "Yes. You've been gone all night." And she blushed at the admission that she'd been watching his house.

He walked past her and set the basket and flowers on the kitchen table. He turned back to her. She hadn't moved.

"I was. Yesterday after I dropped you off, I caught a flight to California. I had no intention of ever returning to Chicago," he admitted.

"You were just going to leave. Without saying good-bye to me. To Michael—"

"Yes," he said, and then his lips quirked slightly. "I've always been a selfish bastard. Ask around."

She should have been angry, except for the fact that he was now standing in her kitchen. She was trying in vain to tamp down the joy that was bubbling up inside of her like an underground spring.

"You obviously changed your mind…"

"I got off the plane in LA, went back to my house in Malibu. I used to love that place; was proud of how expensive it had been. Now it just seemed…cold…empty. I couldn't hear the sounds of cars passing or children playing in the streets. The ocean seemed too loud. When I looked out my bedroom window, a privacy fence and palm trees blocked the next-door neighbor's house. "

One hand came up to run in agitation through his hair. "How could it have changed so much in just a couple of weeks?"

"I don't think it was the house," she whispered, her eyes holding his. She began walking slowly toward the kitchen.

"I could have called a friend, but I realized I really didn't have any. Well, none who were deeper than a teaspoon." He laughed self-consciously. "My real friends are still on the carnival circuit, up in Northern California this time of year. I've long since left that life behind too." She stopped before him, her eyes bright. "I had a little black book to consult," he continued, "but no woman I could find in there had the kind of lively green eyes I've grown to adore. Or the chestnut hair," he said, lifting a strand of wavy silk from her shoulders, rubbing it between his fingertips. "Or the sassy mouth."

His eyes focused there, and her lips formed a tremulous smile. His other hand came up, rested gently on her cheek, his thumb brushing across her soft lower lip.

"Teresa," he said, breathing out the word like a sigh. "You're right. _I _havechanged. The thought of going back there to live again, to resume my psychic business, actually sickens me." His hands went to her slim upper arms, and he shook his head in genuine perplexity. "What the hell have you done to me, woman? I've known gypsies who wouldn't have been able to explain this spell you've cast on me."

"There are no such things as spells," she said.

"And there are no such things as psychics," he added dryly. "I'm a fraud, Teresa, have been one since the cradle. I don't know how to live any other way. If I stay here, I'll be starting over completely, from scratch. I might fall off the wagon sometimes—"

"You mean you might suddenly get the urge to pretend to read minds for money?"

He grinned. "Maybe." He grew serious again. "Or, I might lie or cheat or steal, because that's what my life has been about until now. I might be a bad influence on your brothers. You may end up losing all patience with me and kicking me out on my duplicitous ass."

Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, then link behind his neck as she stood on tiptoe, tilting her face up to his.

"That's a possibility," she whispered. "But maybe, if you have a little faith, _believe_ you really _can_ change, God just might surprise you."

"I believe in _you_," he countered, as his head dipped closer.

"It's a start," she said against his mouth.

And then he kissed her, and she melted against his firm body. His mouth molded to hers, and though it had only been since the day before, they had felt the distance of half a continent between them. When they were both breathless, his hands went to her hips, pulling her lower body closer to his hardness. His eyes were hot with desire.

"Let me—let me make love to you, Teresa. I want to be the first…I want to be the last…"

"Yes," she said, her heart racing.

She took his hand and led him through the living room, then up the stairs to her bedroom, looking over her shoulder at him frequently to find his eyes seeking hers with barely contained excitement. He wanted her, and she wanted to give herself to him. He'd come back to her, come back for this.

Patrick shut the bedroom door behind them, turned the lock and didn't hesitate to take her in his arms again. As much as he'd dreamed of this moment, of taking her slowly and romantically, he found he could barely contain himself. He quickly dispensed with her t-shirt and bra, his hands going to her bare waist as he kissed her again. She started to remove his clothes, but he became impatient, yanking off his suit coat and vest, then his shirt, his shoes and socks. He stood before her in his slacks, pulling her back to him so her naked breasts flattened against his chest. He kissed her shoulder, kissed his way to her ear, where his hot breath made her shiver.

"I'm in love with you," he told her. "Maybe it's too soon to say it, but it's the truth of what I feel. And I want to tell you the truth, Teresa…always."

She pulled back a little to look up at him. "You're not going to take it back tomorrow, are you, out of guilt or fear? You didn't have to say it to get me into bed, Patrick. I'm here willingly."

He smiled. "I'm not going to take it back, ever, I promise you. And I understand if you don't feel the same way yet—"

"I do." The moment she said it, she realized it was true. "I wouldn't be able to do this if I didn't. I've waited so long for the right man to come along, that I don't think I could give myself to someone I don't love."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "We could wait until, well, until marriage."

She blushed. "Are you proposing?"

She was pleased to see him blushing too—she had only been half-serious. But his eyes were completely solemn.

"If that's what you need, to feel right about this, I'll wait until we're both ready."

"I do want marriage…someday. But right now, I just want you."

He was happy to oblige.

It wasn't long before they were both completely nude, and he lowered her to the bed. He kissed her, long and deep, his skin feverish against hers. His beautiful hands skimmed along the surface of her body, caressing, cupping, working her into a heightened state of arousal. While his lips fastened on her breasts, his fingers moved within her, giving her pleasure while preparing her for what was to come. She sobbed his name as she hung on to the precipice, feeling herself nearly ready to fall. Then, suddenly, he wasn't there.

She heard him fumble and curse as his shaking fingers found his wallet and the little packet he'd brought with him. She watched through a daze as he drew on the condom, the sight of him touching himself so intimately the most erotic thing she'd ever seen. She reflexively held her breath as he returned to the bed, kissing her before positioning himself above her, his erection poised at her slick entrance.

"Relax," he said, feeling her tense at the new sensation, at the anticipation of pain. "Breathe…"

He himself was tense, his muscles straining as he held himself back. But he wanted to make this good for her, though he knew with a woman, the first time often wasn't.

"Teresa…look at me."

She opened her tightly squeezed eyes and he was staring intensely down at her, his gaze almost mesmerizing, his pupils so dark with passion she could no longer tell their color. They grew gentle as he saw her fear, and she relaxed somewhat beneath him.

His hands came down and slipped beneath her bottom, bringing her closer, and he slid inside of her a little more. He gritted his teeth, but held her eyes.

"Please," she said, her desire beginning to overwhelm her fear. She raised her hips higher, taking him by surprise—he was so far gone he hadn't anticipated her movement. He slid all the way in, met her barrier and they both gasped. "Please," she said again. "I'm okay."

He leaned down to kiss her as he pushed all the way inside, and a long moan escaped him as she gave a little cry and tensed around him. Breathing heavily, he made himself pause to gauge how she was feeling.

"Teresa?"

"Stop…_stopping_. I'm fine," she said in acute frustration. He grinned in spite of his own.

She found his mouth again, and at the same time, moved her hips up to meet him. Patrick inhaled sharply, and then he pulled out nearly all the way before plunging back inside. His hands drew her knees up alongside him, and then he allowed himself to lose himself completely. With each stroke he let out a grunt of pleasure, and she rose to meet him, matching the pace he set easily, her cries echoing his own.

When he felt her hovering on the edge again, he reached between them, found her swollen little bud with his fingers. He pinched it gently and she came undone, her movements becoming wild with ecstasy. He kept going, riding out her pleasure with her, until, moments later, he found his own release, her name a moan on his lips.

He was shaking all over, stunned by the intensity of his physical response, but even more so his deeper, emotional attachment to her. Never had he felt so at one with a woman, so completely connected to her, and it was because he realized he'd never been in love with a woman he'd slept with. He was surprised to find it absolutely made a difference.

He was reluctant to break their physical connection, but he forced himself to get up and dispose of the condom in the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and she closed her eyes in embarrassment as he gently cleaned her.

"Was it—was I-?" she began uncertainly.

"You were beautiful," he told her sincerely. "Perfect."

When he'd finished his task Patrick pulled down the comforter and they both climbed inside the cool sheets. She nestled into his side and rested her soft head on his chest.

When she turned and kissed him sweetly, he knew she was going to be all right; he didn't need to ask.

"That was…amazing," she told him dreamily. "Spiritual even."

"Yes," he said, because it was, even to his agnostic mind. For a few brief moments, he'd believed.

He kissed her damp temple, and he relaxed into her down pillows. Moments later, they were both asleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sound of the older boys returning, their boisterous teasing echoing from downstairs, stirred Teresa to wakefulness. She looked at Patrick, sleeping soundly beside her, and immediately went into panic mode.

"Patrick," she said, shaking him none too gently. "Wake up!"

"Hmm?"

"The boys are home!"

"Boys?" he said groggily. Then his eyes flew open and he was instantly awake. "Shit, I'm sorry. Jetlag."

"Reese?" came the voice of James from the stairwell. "We're home!"

She grabbed her robe from a hook and opened the door a crack. "Okay!" she called. "I'll be right down!"

Patrick had gotten out of the bed, grinning in amusement at their predicament.

"Should I hide under the bed?" he asked, buttoning his pants.

"No! There's no room. In the closet."

He chuckled. "I was just kidding. They're teenage boys, Teresa, they know what's what. And I hate to break the news to you, but statistics show they've probably already—"

"Hush!" She wasn't ready to hear about that, although she remembered her feeble attempts at giving them _The Talk. _They'd blushed and laughed and brushed her off. She bought them each a box of condoms the next day, considering her job done.

"It would be one thing if we were married," she whispered, putting on her own clothes.

He paused, mid-button of his shirt. "I asked…"

She threw his vest at him. "Shut up. Seriously, wait in here until they go to bed, then I'll smuggle you down."

Patrick glanced at the window. It was still light outside, and the bedside clock said 5:17. "You gotta be kidding me."

"No, I'm not."

She was dressed now and headed for the door. "Stay here," she said. She looked back at him, his vest hanging open, his hair mussed. She thought of how it had gotten that way and she trembled inside. As if reading her mind, he was next to her in two long strides, kissing her like he was saying goodbye forever.

"I love you," she said. She gave him an affectionate pat on the chest. "Now stay put."

He watched her go, a wicked grin on his face.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Downstairs, Teresa set to work preparing dinner, her mind still in her bedroom with Patrick.

"What's this?" Tommy asked, holding up the picnic basket and flowers.

"Oh, uh, it's a gift from Patrick. He wanted to take me on a picnic lunch, but we'd already eaten by the time he'd gotten here."

Tommy opened the basket, began removing the contents: hard salami, cheese, a crusty baguette, fruit, pasta salad, a bottle of wine, apple turnovers…

"Oooh, fancy," he said.

James joined him, stole a grape. "Hey, you don't have to cook dinner now, Reese."

She walked over to them and began putting the picnic into the refrigerator "That's not yours, boys. I'm saving this for later. For Patrick and me." She grabbed the salami from Tommy's hands. He laughed suggestively like the teenager he was.

"Are you and Patrick Jane dating?" asked James.

"Uh, yes," she said, averting her eyes. "I guess you could say that." She shut the fridge and turned back to the pantry for a big can of ravioli. "How do you two feel about that?"

Tommy shrugged. "He found Michael. He's cool with me."

"That's right," said James. "And Michael sure likes him. I've been replaced as backyard baseball coach."

Teresa took the can off the electric can opener, frowning in concern. "Does that bother you? Because I can ask Patrick to back off."

"I'm kidding, Reese. Go for it. The man's obviously rich."

"Bad taste in cars though," added Tommy. Both boys laughed. "But seriously, Reese. You don't need our permission. You're an adult; you're entitled to a love life."

"Yes, she is," said Patrick, joining them in the kitchen. Teresa gasped, outraged. He walked to the refrigerator, opened it like he owned the place, and reached in for the bunch of grapes, munching hungrily as he savored everyone's surprised reactions. "That's a very mature attitude, Tommy."

Tommy seemed to stand a little taller at the praise.

"You were upstairs all the time?" asked James.

"Duh, dumb ass," said Tommy.

"Tommy!" Teresa chastised, embarrassed for a number of reasons.

There came a rattling of the front door knob, and Michael entered, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Hey, Mr. Jane," he said, happier to see their neighbor than his older siblings.

"Hi, Michael. How was the party?"

He flushed and then grinned. "It was cool. Brittany really liked the present."

Patrick smiled back. "I told you."

"What did you get her?" asked Teresa.

Michael glanced at Patrick, then looked smugly back at his sister. "It's a man thing," he told her in his attempt at a grown-up voice. Patrick barely stifled a laugh, but Tommy and James weren't so tactful.

"Shut up, you guys," pouted Michael.

"How much do I owe you?" Teresa whispered near Patrick's ear.

"Paid in full," he replied under his breath, a devilish glint in his eye. She flushed, and Patrick knew she wasn't going to let this go. He'd probably be paying even more for it later, he thought, the idea giving him a little thrill of desire.

"Are we going on a picnic?" asked Michael, seeing the basket.

"No—" began Teresa.

"Yes," said Patrick. "But it's too late to go to the lake like I'd planned, so we're having a picnic here instead."

"Here?" said Michael, wide-eyed.

"Of course. Tommy, James, move the coffee table to the side in the living room. Michael, you spread out that blanket from the basket. Teresa and I will get the food."

"Seriously?" said Tommy, frowning at the lame idea.

"Yep. Of course, you can eat ravioli at the kitchen table, but the rest of us civilized people are going to dine in style. Now hop to it." Patrick nodded toward the living room.

With an adolescent sigh, Tommy joined James and Michael to do what they were told. Teresa looked after them in amazement.

"You really have a way with them," she said. "I can't get them to make their beds, let alone move a table."

"You've done fine," he said, going to her cupboards and pulling out plates. "Sometimes it's just the sound of a man's voice that boys need to motivate them a little. Nothing you can do about that."

Teresa brought out the food again from the refrigerator, while Patrick found the silverware drawer.

"Still," she said, kissing his cheek. "I think I'm going to like having you around."

He caught her hand, stopping her long enough to give her a soft peck on the lips.

"And I think I'm going to like being here," he said solemnly.

Then, from behind his back he produced the roses he'd brought her earlier. She hadn't even seen him pick them up. Their sweet scent assailed her nose, and she took them from his hand, inhaling deeply.

"Thank you," she said, eyes closed in bliss.

"You're welcome," he replied, and when he said it, it was in the same tone that he'd used to tell her he loved her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Epiologue**

_**One year later…**_

Patrick picked Teresa up from the diner and she slid inside the Citroen, kissing his lips briefly in greeting.

"Well," said Patrick happily. "It's official. Chicago PD has hired me on as a full-time consultant, on the payroll and everything."

"It's about time," Teresa declared. "How many cases have you solved for them, for _free_?"

"Three," he said.

He'd first volunteered his services several months before, when a serial killer had terrorized the city, and the police had hit a brick wall. It had been difficult at first to convince the police chief that his insight was valuable, not to mention that his uncanny suppositions made it seem like Patrick himself might be the killer. But with his help, the police had found irrefutable proof and caught their man. He'd offered again when a thief had stolen from the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art, and they'd finally called for his advice when the mayor's daughter had gone missing. When he'd helped the FBI find the kidnapper, the mayor had insisted Patrick be offered a job. He'd gladly accepted.

He no longer billed himself as a psychic. Indeed, he'd stopped taking clients altogether, and he'd been living on his savings, then on the sales of his house in Malibu, and the Ferrari he'd left in the garage. After his attorney had sent him the proceeds, Patrick had immediately gone to the jeweler's and bought Teresa the most expensive engagement ring he could afford. He glanced now at the small emerald she'd insisted he exchange the over-the-top diamond for, smiling as it caught the afternoon light. He tended to spoil her with all sorts of gifts, both tasteful and extravagant, when she let him.

"Well, I'm proud of you," she said, touching his thigh as he maneuvered through afternoon traffic.

"Thank you. And I'm equally proud of you," he countered, "for that _A _you made on your _Psychology_ test."

"Thanks. I can't tell you how much those mnemonics tricks you taught me are helping me study."

He brought her left hand to his mouth and kissed her ring finger. "My pleasure." Since most of his tutoring sessions took place in bed, it truly _was _his pleasure.

She was now attending college full time and only working in the diner part time, at Patrick's insistence. No fiancé of his was going to continue to waste her time waiting tables when she could be pursuing her education. She'd resisted taking his money at first, but he reminded her that when they were married in the summer, what was his would be hers. He'd been helping Tommy too, who, since he'd graduated from high school, had enrolled in a trade school. He wanted to become an electrician.

Everything seemed perfect, except that he still slept away from Teresa in his grandmother's house, and they'd been forced to sneak most of their romantic interludes when her brothers were at school.

Summer couldn't come soon enough, as far as he was concerned.

"Have I told you lately how much I adore you," he asked, when they were stopped at a light.

She smiled. He told her something along those lines every day.

"Yes, but that's something a girl can never tire of hearing." She stared into his eyes a moment, and he was a little startled at their sudden intensity.

"What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" he asked softly.

She too was thinking about their upcoming wedding, of a time when she could give him a child of their own, a curly haired, blonde moppet with her father's mischievous eyes. They hadn't talked children yet, but she knew that was a conversation they should definitely have before they tied the knot. But she wasn't worried; he was incredible with children, as she'd seen firsthand.

"You're the psychic," she teased. "You figure it out."

The light changed and Patrick drove on. "There's no such thing as psychics, Teresa," he reminded her. But a few minutes later, after he'd parked in his driveway, he pulled her across the seat and into his arms.

"I'd rather her hair were chestnut and wavy, like her mother's," he whispered into her ear.

Teresa laughed and held him tighter.

**THE END**

**A/N: Thanks again for reading this. Please check out my other fics if you are new to my writing. I've been doing this awhile, so there are lots of stories to fill in this extra long hiatus. And I'd love to hear what you think of them.**

**P.S. As a mother and a teacher, I would hope that if this were real life, Teresa would have waited until marriage to have sex, but this is a fanfic, and ironically in some ways more realistic of a modern young woman, I'm afraid. Also, I'm a little shaky on the Catholic belief in not using birth control, so if I offended anyone, I apologize. Geeze, sex is sure complicated these days! Best if you wait until marriage ;). **


End file.
